\ 


2>OUTHERN  BRAr.'CH. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNk, 

LIBRARY, 

t-OS   ANufci_fcS.   CALIF. 


HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS  OF 
THE  GREAT  LAKES 

INCLUDING  THE  STATES  OF 

PENNSYLVANIA 

MINNESOTA 

NEW  YORK 

WISCONSIN 

MICHIGAN 

INDIANA 

OHIO 

AND 

GLIMPSES  OF  CANADA 


-^7^^^ 


1401 


(      •       * 


ts- 


O  -3  Ji     * 


Contents 

Page 

I. 

The  Valley  of  the  Genesee    . 

I 

II. 

A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  . 

20 

III. 

Tragic  Niagara    ...... 

38 

IV. 

The  Pennsylvania  Shore       . 

55 

V. 

An  Autumn  Paradise   .          .          . 

82 

VI. 

From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron    . 

104 

VII. 

A  Michigan  Forest  Fire         .          .          .          . 

133 

VIII. 

The  Straits  of  Mackinac 

153 

IX. 

Roundabout  the  "Soo" 

179 

X. 

The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks 

205 

XI. 

The  Copper  Country    .... 

226 

XII. 

The  Land  of  Iron          .... 

240 

XIII. 

Wisconsin  Watersides  .... 

264 

XIV. 

An  Illinois  Valley         .... 

284 

XV. 

Tippecanoe          ...... 

303 

VII 


Illustrations 


On  the  Shore  of  Lake  Erie 

A  Bend  of  the  Stream 

Beside  Lake  Ontario 

A  Villager        .... 

Making  Ready  to  Sow  Wheat  . 

Entering  the  Locks  at  Lockport 

Dinner  Preparations 

Steering  a  Mule  to  the  Cabin  Stable 

Working  the  Pump 

The  American  Falls 

Entering  the  Niagara 

Where  La  Salle  Launched  the  "Griffon" 

Looking  down  on  the  Canadian  Falls  from 

A  Fish  Wharf 

In  a  Vineyard 

Picking  Tomatoes 

Stacking  Corn 

Ohio  Peaches 

Fishermen 

Advising  the  Ditch  Digger 

Looking  Out  of  Put-in-Bay 

On  the  Deck  of  a  Sailing  Vessel 

On  the  Hotel  Piazza 

The  Village  Sidewalk 


Goat 


Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

7 
II 

14 

18 

23 
27 

30 

34 

39 
43 
46 

50 

57 

64 

72 

81 

87 

91 

94 

98 

107 

no 

116 


Islanc 


Illustrations 


Ancient  Mariners     . 

Logs       .... 

Ringing  the  Schoolbell 

Clearing  Up  the  Burnt  Land 

The  Pump  at  the  Back  Door 

Grubbing  Up  Stumps 

The  Picturesque  Old  Town  of  Mackinac 

A  Village  Wayside  . 

One  of  the  Fort  Gateways 

Starting  for  the  Fishing  Grounc 

Entering  the  "Soo"  Canal 

In  the  Business  Center 

Hauling  Off  Stranded  Logs 

The  Dog  Team 

Making  Repairs 

Driftwood  for  Home  Fires 

Examining  the  Nets 

School  Children 

The  Duck  Hunter 

The  Well 

Binding  Barley 

The  Kite-fiyers 

On  Portage  Lake 

At  the  End  of  the  Day 

A  Primitive  Wigwam 

The  Partridge 

A  Birch  Bark  Canoe 

The  Straw  Stack 

The  Workers  . 

The  Harvest  . 

A  Schoolhouse 


Illustrations 


zi 


The  Bluffs  on  Rock  River 
A  Farmyard  Family 
Putting  in  a  Pane  of  Glass 
Getting  the  Mail      . 
Hewing  out  Railroad  Ties 
Saturday  Afternoon  in  Town 
Returning  from  the  Spring  House 
Ready  to  Start  for  Work 


284 
288 
292 
297 
304 
309 
312 
321 


Introductory  Note 

This  book  is  a  record  of  a  search  for  the  picturesque 
and  the  characteristic  in  nature  and  life  in  the  Great 
Lakes  region.  For  the  most  part  I  have  kept  to  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  lake  shores,  but  there  are 
several  digressions  a  considerable  distance  inland.  I 
did  not,  however,  in  any  instance,  go  outside  of  the 
district  that  is  directly  tributary  to  these  vast  fresh- 
water seas. 

What  I  have  especially  sought  was  variety  of  in- 
terest, and  an  inclusion  of  all  the  more  important 
features  that  give  the  region  its  individuality.  Yet, 
this  book,  like  its  predecessors,  deals  with  the  rustic 
rather  than  the  urban  attraction,  and  has  compara- 
tively little  to  say  about  the  cities.  It  is  concerned 
far  more  with  the  rural  byways,  the  villages,  the  farm 
homes,  and  the  fishermen  loitering  by  the  watersides. 
Life  in  typical  small  communities  and  the  personal 
experiences  of  pioneers  and  other  individuals  have  large 
place  in  these  pages.  The  history  of  the  lakes  and 
industrial  conditions  are  touched  on  only  incidentally; 

XIII 


but  all  in  all  I  trust  that  the  book  conveys  a  vivid 
impression  of  what  the  region  now  is  from  a  human 
standpoint,  and  of  how  it  has  developed  from  an  un- 
tamed wilderness.  As  the  volume  is  one  of  a  series 
covering  the  United  States  I  do  not  deal  much  with  the 
Canadian  side  of  the  lakes.  Only  along  the  Detroit 
River  where  the  two  countries  touch  most  intimately 
have  I  given  any  detailed  attention  to  our  northern 
neighbor. 

These  "Highways  and  Byways"  volumes  are  often 
consulted  by  persons  who  are  planning  pleasure  tours. 
To  make  the  books  more  helpful  for  this  purpose  each 
chapter  has  a  note  appended  containing  suggestions 
for  intending  travellers.  With  the  aid  of  these  notes, 
I  think  the  reader  can  readily  decide  what  regions  are 
likely  to  prove  particularly  worth  visiting,  and  will 
know  how  to  see  such  regions  with  the  most  comfort 

and  facility. 

Clifton  Johnson. 

Hadley,  Mass. 


Highways  and  Byways  of  the 
Great  Lakes 


I 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GENESEE 

THE  Genesee  Valley  in  western  New  York  was  a 
paradise  to  the  early  settlers,  and  though  the 
old-time  seekers-after-fortune  soon  found  su- 
perior attractions  farther  toward  the  sunset,  this  vale 
has  never  wholly  lost  its  fame  or  charm.  All  along  the 
river  is  much  fine  farming  country,  but  the  portion 
that  especially  gladdened  the  hearts  of  the  pioneers 
was  the  forty  miles  above  Rochester  where  broad  and 
wonderfully  rich  alluvial  flats  bordered  it  on  either  side. 
At  Rochester  are  two  mighty  falls,  and  the  power 
these  furnish  determined  the  site  of  the  city  and  has 
been  a  chief  factor  in  the  town's  prosperity  and  rapid 
growth.  The  more  important  fall  is  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  city.  Great  manufactories  and  tall  chimneys 
loom  above  the  chasm  that  opens  below,  smoke  and 
steam  are  drifting  about,  and  the  din  of  machinery 
and  of  traffic  on  streets  bridges  and  railways  fills  the 
ears.  The  gorge  continues  for  several  miles  almost 
to  Lake  Ontario. 


2  Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

As  I  was  about  to  step  on  an  electric,  car  that  went 
in  the  lake  direction,  it  started  unexpectedly,  and  an 
elderly  German  just  behind  me  caught  my  arm  and 
pulled  me  back.  "It  ain't  safe  to  jump  on  no  car  that 
is  going,"  said  he.     "Sometimes  you  get  hurt." 

We  followed  it  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  where 
we  got  comfortably  aboard  and  occupied  a  seat  together. 
My  companion  was  an  old  resident  of  the  region,  and 
by  the  time  we  were  out  of  the  city  he  was  telling  me 
how  he  emigrated  to  America  at  the  age  of  seventeen. 
"And  I've  been  here  forty-eight  years,"  said  he. 
"When  I  come  there  was  nothing  but  big  farms  here, 
where  now  you  see  the  land  all  cut  up  into  little  market- 
gardening  farms  of  five  or  ten  acres.  They  pay  high 
for  these  little  places,  and  yet  the  owners  make  money — 
oh!  you  bet!" 

I  inquired  about  the  nationality  of  the  market- 
gardeners,  and  he  replied:  "The  biggest  share  of  'em 
is  of  all  kinds.  Across  the  road  from  where  I  live  a 
Belgian  has  just  bought,  and  he  gave  a  thousand  dol- 
lars an  acre.  I  wouldn't  like  to  taste  that  honey.  I'm 
afraid  it  would  sour  on  me.  I  own  seventy  acres,  but 
It's  rough,  with  deep  hollows  and  steep  hills,  and  is 
not  well  suited  for  gardening.  Look — there  is  my 
house  where  you  see  that  threshing-machine  at  work 
in  front  of  the  red  barn.  My  son  manages  the  farm 
now." 

He  got  off",  but  I  went  on  as  far  as  the  lake  and 
rambled  along  a  stretch  of  sandy  shore.     The  air  was 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  3 

unusually  clear,  and  the  water  was  a  deep  blue  in  the 
distance,  but  nearer  had  a  greenish  hue,  and  in  the 
shallows  along  shore  was  yellow  with  mud  that  had  been 
stirred  up  by  the  waves  or  brought  down  by  the  river. 
Great  snaggy  tree-trunks  strewed  the  waterside,  half 
buried  in  the  sand,  and  shaggy  with  green  moss  in  their 
less-exposed  portions.  Here  and  there  was  a  clam-shell, 
and  there  were  occasional  little  white  snail-shells  and 
scatterings  of  polished  pebbles.  In  the  warm-weather 
vacation  days  the  shore  here  had  been  enlivened  by 
pleasure-seekers,  but  now  it  was  early  autumn  and  the 
beach  was  well-nigh  deserted. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  river  was  a  life-saving  station 
with  its  staunch,  white-painted  boats.  The  life-savers 
are  on  duty  from  early  April  to  December.  Nearly  all 
traffic  on  the  lakes  ceases  during  the  winter,  though 
the  lakes  themselves  do  not  by  any  means  freeze  solidly 
over.  The  stormy  months  that  prelude  the  winter 
furnish  the  most  wrecks,  but  it  is  in  summer  that  the 
life-savers  at  the  mouth  of  the  Genesee  are  busiest; 
for  the  pleasure  craft  which  abound  here  have  frequent 
mishaps,  and  the  timely  assistance  of  the  government 
men  prevents  many  a  tragedy.  Yet  in  spite  of  their 
efforts  several  drownings  occur  in  the  vicinity  each 
year,  and  the  life-savers  always  pick  up  a  number  of 
dead  bodies  that  have  drifted  from  elsewhere — perhaps 
as  many  as  a  dozen  during  a  season.  Some  of  the  bodies 
are  those  of  suicides  from  the  falls  up  the  river,  and 
others  have  been  brought  by  wind  and  current  from 


4         Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

more  or  less  remote  portions  of  the  lake.  They  seldom 
are  found  on  the  shore,  but  are  seen  floating  by  the 
lookout  who  is  always  scanning  the  water.  As  a  rule 
the  drowned  persons  are  identified.  When  they  are 
not,  the  bodies  are  buried  in  paupers'  graves  in  the 
Rochester  cemetery. 

On  my  way  back  toward  the  city  I  stopped  at  the 
home  of  the  old  German.  The  threshing  engine  was 
in  the  dooryard,  and  the  thresher  itself  on  the  barn 
floor.  Several  men  were  on  a  big  rye  stack  close  to  the 
barn  passing  down  the  bundles,  and  the  straw  came 
out  in  a  steady  stream  at  the  back  barn  door  where 
more  men  were  stationed  to  make  a  new  stack  of  it. 
A  spout  delivered  the  grain  into  a  basket  on  the  barn 
floor,  and  a  man  carried  it  to  an  adjoining  bin.  That 
growing  golden  pile — a  store  of  healthful  food  signifi- 
cant of  nature's  bounty — was  exceedingly  good  to 
look  at.  The  rye  stack  had  at  first  been  as  high  as  the 
barn  itself,  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  great  doors 
was  a  stack  of  oats  almost  as  large  that  would  follow 
the  rye  through  the  thresher. 

The  threshing  crew  consisted  of  five  men.  They 
went  with  their  apparatus  from  farm  to  farm  through 
the  region  spending  a  day  or  two  threshing  at  each 
place.  It  was  expected  that  the  farmer  would  furnish 
about  eight  additional  men  and  have  ready  a  wagon- 
load  of  coal.  These  extra  men  were  recruited  among 
the  neighbors,  who  were  accustomed  to  exchange  work 
on  such  occasions.     The  threshing  crew  slept  in  the 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  5 

barn  on  the  hay,  but  the  farmer's  wife  fed  them,  and 
furnished  dinner  for  the  other  helpers.  Threshing 
begins  about  the  middle  of  August  and  continues 
through  September.  I  asked  If  the  outfit  was  useful 
for  other  purposes. 

"That's  an  awful  powerful  engine,  boy,"  replied  the 
captain  of  the  crew  with  emphasis.  "It'll  go  right  onto 
a  woodlot  and  saw,  and  It'll  work  on  the  roads,  and  it 
is  useful  in  a  good  many  ways.  Still,  It's  apt  to  be  idle 
seven  or  eight  months  out  of  the  twelve." 

"Everything's  done  with  machinery  now,"  com- 
mented the  old  farmer.  "When  I  come  here  we 
threshed  by  hand,  and  reaped  by  hand,  too.  The 
region  wasn't  nearly  so  thickly  settled  as  It  Is  at  present, 
and  you  wouldn't  see  a  darn  soul  stirring  on  the  high- 
ways some  days.  The  land  was  covered  with  stumps — 
pine,  chestnut,  and  oak  stumps — and  they  stood  just  as 
close  together  as  those  peach  trees  do  there  In  the  or- 
chard. I  used  to  dig  up  the  pine  stumps  and  sell  them 
to  the  factories  for  fuel.  They  were  full  of  pitch  and 
would  burn  bright  and  hot.  But  you  couldn't  do  any 
splitting  or  sawing,  the  things  were  so  tough  and  twisty. 
You  had  to  chop,  chop,  chop.  I  got  out  one  stump 
that'  made  two  cords  and  three-quarters.  We  still  find 
pine  roots  once  In  a  while.  The  plough  turns  'em  out, 
and  they're  good  to  burn  even  yet." 

"What  crops  did  you  raise.'*"   I  inquired. 

"Oh,  we  raised  chickens  and  wheat  and  children, 
and  I  don't  know  what,"  he  responded.     "But  I  must 


6         Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

help  the  threshers  now.  There  are  nice  peaches  in  the 
orchard.    Go  and  take  all  you  want." 

So  I  visited  the  orchard,  and  Johnny,  the  small  boy 
of  the  household,  went  with  me.  The  sweetest  and 
most  toothsome  peaches  were  those  on  the  ground 
that  had  fallen  off  from  very  ripeness,  and  in  which  all 
woody  fiber  had  disappeared  and  left  only  juice  and 
flavor.  While  we  searched  about  for  the  choicest  I 
observed,  off  across  a  deep  hollow,  the  farm  herd  of 
cows  idly  ruminating  on  a  hill-top,  Johnny  informed 
me  that  one  of  the  herd  was  a  bull;  "but  he's  a  great 
coward,"  said  the  lad,  "and  I  go  in  and  chase  him 
around  with  a  stick." 

An  idyllic  grassy  lane  wound  down  the  hollow  from 
the  barn  to  the  pasture,  and  beside  this  lane  was  a 
small  pond  with  reedy  borders,  where  a  flock  of  geese 
paddled  about.  "I  fell  in  that  pond  one  day,"  remarked 
Johnny.  "I  got  wet — awful  wet,  and  I  had  my  clothes 
on.  I  was  ketchin'  little  hoppertoads.  I  went  in  head 
first  all  over;  but  I  swam  to  shore,  and  Ethel  pulled 
me  out.  She's  my  sister.  My  mother  didn't  whip  me. 
She  asked  me  how  I  liked  it." 

When  we  returned  to  the  house,  after  Johnny  had 
shown  me  the  colts  and  the  pigs  and  a  pet  lamb,  it  was 
noon,  and  Ethel  had  come  home  from  school.  She 
brought  with  her  several  girl  friends  to  see  the  threshing, 
but  after  a  little  running  around  they  spread  a  bit  of 
carpet  in  the  shade  of  an  apple  tree,  and  sat  down  to 
eat  their  lunches.    Meanwhile  the  engine  had  blown  a 


A  bend  of  the  slreai 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  7 

shrill  toot,  and  the  workers  had  stopped  for  dinner. 
The  stout,  sweaty  fellows  washed  up  at  a  bench  near 
the  back  door,  and  then  went  inside  through  the  leanto 
kitchen,  where  the  housewife  was  scurrying  around, 
to  a  little  dining-room  beyond  that  was  a  few  steps 
higher  up. 

I  asked  for  the  privilege  of  eating  with  them,  but  was 
invited  instead  to  wait  for  the  second  table  and  eat 
with  the  family.  We  presently  sat  down,  and  when  I 
had  been  helped  generously  to  meat  potato  and  cab- 
bage, grandpa  called  my  attention  to  a  flourishing 
cherry  tree  that  we  could  see  through  the  screen  door 
on  the  near  side  of  the  garden.  "I  used  to  have  trouble 
raising  cherry  trees,"  said  he.  "As  soon  as  I  set  one 
out  my  wife  would  begin  to  empty  her  soapsuds  around 
it  to  make  it  grow,  and  that  killed  'em  every  time. 
I  thought  she'd  killed  this,  but  I  transplanted  it  to  that 
spot  where  it  wasn't  handy  for  her  soapsuds,  and  it's 
now  a  fine  tree.    I  put  it  there  nine  years  ago." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  grandma,  "it's  not  so  long  as  that." 

"Why,  yes  it  is,"  he  retorted.  "Can't  you  remember 
anything  at  all  no  more.^"' 

An  eleven-months-old  baby  sat  in  a  go-cart  beside 
the  table,  and  presently  grandma  reached  down  and 
took  the  baby  in  her  lap  remarking,  "She's  the  best 
girl  in  town." 

Then  she  gave  her  a  spoon  to  play  with,  and  pretty 
soon  experimentally  dipped  up  a  little  cabbage  with  it. 
The  taste  of  the  cabbage  seemed  to  be  to  the  baby's 


8         Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

liking,  and  grandma  gave  her  some  more,  whereat  the 
mother  rather  mildly  and  Ineffectually  protested,  and 
then  turning  to  me  said:  "You  let  a  baby  eat  any- 
thing It  wants,  and  you  have  trouble.  I  know  I  called 
the  doctor  for  Johnny  once  when  he  was  small,  and 
the  doctor  asked,  'What's  he  been  eatin'?'  They  always 
say  a  doctor  knows  everything.  He  don't,  but  he  was 
right  about  Johnny.  I  watched  the  boy  afterward, 
and  he'd  get  out  of  sight  behind  the  barn  with  an  apple 
to  chew  on." 

While  the  women  were  finishing  their  meal  somewhat 
leisurely,  after  the  men  folks  had  gone  out  to  work, 
Johnny  came  In  snivelling  and  announced  that  grandpa 
had  said  he  must  bait  the  cows.  His  mother  reassured 
him  by  saying  that  he  was  staying  at  home  from  school 
to  take  care  of  the  baby  and  need  therefore  only  help 
grandpa  get  the  cows  out  of  the  pasture.  "Yes,"  she 
said  as  he  was  leaving,  "Johnny's  supposed  to  be  help- 
ing me  with  the  baby,  and  he  was  In  the  house  just 
once  this  morning.  He  asked  If  she  was  sleeping,  and 
when  he  found  that  she  was — 'Good!'  he  said,  and 
away  he  went." 

The  floor  of  the  dining-room  was  covered  with  a  rag 
carpet.  This  carpet  was  comparatively  new,  and  such 
carpets  are  still  often  made  In  the  region.  "It'll  out- 
wear any  ordinary  manufactured  carpet,"  declared  the 
housewife.  "I've  got  an  Ingrain  carpet  on  my  parlor, 
and  it's  only  been  there  three  or  four  years,  but  there's 
holes  in  it  already.     One  advantage  of  this  carpet  is 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  9 

that  you  can  cut  the  breadths  apart  and  stick  it  in  a  tub 
and  wash  it.  It  looks  good  afterward.  Mother  and  I 
washed  one  last  week;   I  wish  you  could  have  seen  it." 

When  I  left  this  hospitable  farmhouse  I  loitered 
back  toward  Rochester  along  a  highway  that  was 
bounded  on  either  side  by  an  endless  succession  of 
fields,  with  their  celery  and  tomatoes,  beets  and  melons, 
and  other  vegetables,  intermitting  with  orchards  of 
apple,  peach,  pear,  plum,  and  cherry  trees.  By  and  by 
I  encountered  two  ladies  who  had  come  from  a  cross- 
way,  each  with  a  heaping  handle-basket  of  peaches. 
They  set  the  baskets  down  to  wait  for  the  electric  cars, 
and  one  of  them  hailed  me  with  an  invitation  to  have 
some  of  their  fruit.  "It  was  given  to  us,"  she  said, 
"and  I'd  like  to  share  it  with  others.  I  know  when 
I'm  in  a  region,  a  stranger,  how  glad  I'd  be  to  eat  some 
of  the  fruit  that  was  going  to  waste,  if  only  it  was  offered 
to  me." 

So  I  had  peaches  a-plenty  that  day,  free  as  the  air, 
and  altogether  delicious.  Moreover,  a  little  farther 
on  I  came  across  a  canteloupe  by  the  wayside.  It  was 
perfectly  good,  except  for  a  small  soft  spot,  and  it  had 
evidently  been  heaved  out  of  an  adjacent  field.  I  ate 
what  I  could,  and  after  enjoying  thoroughly  its  ripe 
and  nutty  flavor  left  behind  with  regret  the  greater 
portion. 

On  the  other  side  of  Rochester  the  river  creeps  along 
between  attractive  cultivated  fields  and  pasture  lands; 
but  to  see  the  stream  and  the  farmlands  in  a  more 


10       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

lively  aspect  I  went  by  train  fifty  miles  inland  to  Port- 
age Falls.  Here  was  a  country  village  with  two  hotels, 
several  little  stores  and  churches,  a  blacksmith  shop, 
and  a  gristmill.  A  drowsy  quiet  brooded  over  it  and 
there  were  seldom  more  than  two  teams,  or  half  a 
dozen  persons  on  foot  in  sight  on  the  streets.  Round 
about  mounded  the  green  hills,  with  here  and  there  a 
road  seeking  the  easiest  way  over  a  height,  and  an 
occasional  farmhouse.  There  are  three  falls.  To  get 
to  them  by  the  highway  one  has  to  traverse  a  consider- 
able distance,  but  a  footpath  makes  a  shortcut  over 
a  lofty  hill.  This  path  is  quite  charming,  now  in  the 
open,  and  now  meandering  through  woodland,  and 
it  even  has  a  stile  or  two  by  which  to  get  over  fences. 
It  is  a  well-trodden  way  connecting  a  small  outlying 
hamlet  with  the  main  village,  and  is  much  frequented 
by  school  children  going  back  and  forth  with  their 
dinner  pails  and  books.  I  fancied  that  originally  the 
Indians  must  have  gone  over  this  trail  and  worn  the 
first  faint  depression  with  their  moccasined  feet. 

The  falls  are  impressive  in  height  and  in  the  volume 
of  water  that  passes  over  them,  they  have  never  been 
harnessed,  and  their  voice  is  as  loud  and  wild  as  in 
the  days  of  the  aborigines.  Below  the  final  falls  is  a 
tremendous  canyon  whose  perpendicular  cliffs  and 
yawning  depths  would  be  imposing  even  among  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  The  land  here  is  a  public  park, 
and  it  has  not  been  ruthlessly  invaded  by  choppers  for 
many  a  long  year.     So  there  are  numerous  trees  that 


^~— r-r^^-j'T 


■P*^?-'?"'  - 


-•-^s- 


Beside  Lake  Ontario 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  1 1 

have  attained  noble  proportions,  and  the  sylvan  paths, 
and  shadowed  rivulets  are  delightful. 

Attractions  of  another  sort  in  the  vicinity  of  the  falls 
are  an  Indian  council  house,  the  grave  of  "The  White 
Woman  of  the  Genesee,"  and  a  typical  pioneer  dwelling. 
None  of  these  rightfully  belong  in  this  particular  place, 
"but  had  they  not  been  moved  here  it  is  very  doubtful 
if  they  would  have  been  preserved  and  properly  cared 
for.  The  council  house  was  erected  long  before  the 
American  Revolution  by  the  Senecas  at  Caneadea,  the 
uppermost  of  their  villages  on  the  Genesee.  It  is  about 
sixteen  by  forty  feet  with  walls  of  large,  well-hewn 
pine  logs,  dove-tailed  at  the  corners.  The  roof  is  of 
"shakes,"  or  long  hand-split  shingles,  held  in  place  by 
poles  bound  with  withes.  The  little  window  openings 
are  barred  with  sticks.  On  the  earth  floor  in  the  center 
of  the  house  the  Indians  built  their  fire  and  gathered 
about  it  for  their  council,  while  the  smoke  escaped 
through  apertures  in  the  ridge. 

"The  White  Woman  of  the  Genesee"  was  Mary 
Jamison  who  was  taken  captive  at  Marsh  Creek, 
Pennsylvania,  by  a  Shawnee  war  party  in  1755,  when 
she  was  twelve  years  old.  Her  parents  and  her  sister 
and  two  brothers  were  slain,  but  she  was  carried  off  a 
captive,  and  at  the  age  of  fourteen  married  an  Indian. 
When  he  died  she  married  another  Indian.  Most  of 
her  life  was  spent  on  the  banks  of  the  Genesee,  and  there 
all  but  one  of  her  eight  children  were  born.  She  refused 
to  leave  the  Indians  when  the  opportunity  was  offered. 


12        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

and  continued  with  them  until  she  died  in  1833.  The 
log  dwelling  which  adjoins  the  council  house  belonged 
to  her  daughter,  but  she  herself  spent  much  time  in  it. 
The  large  open  fireplace  and  the  chimney  are  made  of 
sticks  plastered  with  clay,  and  the  stairs  leading  up 
to  the  loft  consist  of  a  sloping  log  with  notches  cut  in 
it  for  footholds. 

In  my  wanderings  in  the  region  I  one  day  got  ac- 
quainted with  a  villager  who  was  whetting  his  scythe 
preparatory  to  mowing  the  weeds  and  grass  on  the 
borders  of  his  garden.  Early  in  our  conversation  he 
let  me  know  that  he  would  be  seventy-six  on  his  next 
birthday,  but  he  was  still  straight  and  vigorous.  How- 
ever, he  considered  that  his  working  days  were  over, 
and  he  labored  only  as  the  spirit  moved,  not  from 
necessity,  and  was  therefore  quite  ready  to  talk. 

"In  1 861,"  said  he,  "I  mowed  with  a  scythe  twenty- 
six  days  consecutively.  We  cut  all  our  grass  with 
scythes  then.  The  mowers  would  begin  at  sunrise  and 
quit  at  sunset,  and  they  stuck  to  that  one  job.  There 
were  others  to  spread  the  swathes  and  take  care  of  the 
drying  and  getting-in.  Later  in  the  season  I'd  go  from 
farm  to  farm  and  thrash  clover  seed  with  my. flail, 
thirty  or  forty  bushels  at  a  place." 

His  interest  in  these  recollections  had  caused  him  to 
speak  with  more  vigor  and  noise  than  were  really  neces- 
sary, and  presently  an  old  lady  who  was  pottering  around 
in  the  garden  interrupted  him.  "Felix,"  said  she,  "you 
needn't  holler.     There  ain't  nobody  deef  here." 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  13 

"Well,  I'm  deef  myself,"  he  responded,  "and  I 
want  to  hear  what  I'm  saying." 

Then  he  resumed  the  thread  of  his  discourse,  and  said: 
"We  used  to  have  a  tannery  here,  and  a  wagon  shop 
and  sawmills.  But  they're  all  gone.  This  country 
is  depopulated.  Pshaw!  there  ain't  a  fifth  of  the  in- 
habitants there  used  to  be.  It's  just  the  same  all  along 
the  stream  in  the  little  places — the  industries  have 
gone  to  the  cities,  and  the  country  villages  are  dead. 
There  used  to  be  plenty  of  work  here  all  the  year 
round.  Every  winter  we  lumbered  it.  At  present 
there's  nothing  left  to  lumber.  The  best  trees  was 
taken  long  ago,  and  we've  skinned  the  woodlands 
until  today  'twould  be  hard  to  find  even  a  walking- 
stick.  I  cleared  up  fifty  acres  of  woodland  myself. 
The  big  timber  I  sold,  and  I  saved  some  fence  posts 
that  I  drawed  to  the  depot  at  six  cents  apiece,  but  the 
rest  I  just  rolled  together  and  burned.  There  was  lots 
of  it  that  would  be  valuable  now — you  bet  your  sweet 
life! 

"But  no  matter  how  much  land  the  old-time  farmers 
cleared  up  they  kept  a  piece  of  the  best  woodland  for 
posterity.  It  was  the  sentiment  of  every  farmer  that 
this  woodland  should  be  saved  to  draw  from  to  keep 
up  the  buildings  on  the  place,  and  it  was  sacred  to 
them.  Yet  as  soon  as  posterity  got  their  hands  on  it 
they  turned  it  into  money  and  swept  those  patches  of 
woodland  off  the  face  of  the  earth  as  clean  as  you  could 
sweep  with  a  broom. 


14       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"I've  seen  first-class  pine  lumber  sold  here  when  I 
was  a  kid  at  five  dollars  a  thousand.  Now  the  price 
is  out  of  sight.  The  pines  we  used  to  cut  would  average 
three  or  four  feet  through  at  the  butts.  Some  were  as 
much  as  six  feet.  We  wouldn't  draw  a  log  with  knots 
in  it  out  of  the  woods.  We'd  let  it  lie  and  rot.  You'll 
occasionally  see  the  pine  stumps  set  up  on  edge  along 
the  borders  of  the  fields  and  serving  for  fences.  Those 
stumps  will  turn  cattle  and  stock  yet,  though  they've 
been  exposed  to  the  weather  fifty  years  and  more. 

"What  little  woodland  there  is  left  now  don't  have 
half  a  chance  on  account  of  fires;  and  it's  the  railroad 
that's  most  to  blame.  There's  a  law  to  compel  the  use 
of  spark-catching  screens  in  the  smokestacks,  but  the 
fellows  on  the  engines  pull  the  screens  out  in  order  to 
get  a  better  draft,  and  when  a  train  is  working  hard 
going  up  a  steep  grade  you'll  see  chunks  of  live  coal 
as  big  as  your  fist  fiying  out.  So  in  a  dry  time  the  fires 
not  only  run  through  the  woods,  but  burn  a  good  deal 
of  fencing.  It  ain't  easy  to  get  damages  either.  Possi- 
bly the  railroad  authorities  will  give  you  wire  for  a  new 
fence  if  you  furnish  the  posts,  and  even  then  they'll 
act  as  if  they  were  doing  you  a  favor  you  had  no  right 
to  expect. 

"Yes,  the  woodland  is  gone,  and  with  it  the  hunting. 
Until  a  few  years  ago  we  used  to  be  able  to  console 
ourselves  by  going  fishing  once  in  a  while,  but  there 
are  no  fish  any  more  now.  They  were  all  killed  off  as 
the  result  of  a  flood  and  a  freeze.    The  flood  occurred 


^■ssrrrsr 


A  villager 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  15 

in  July,  1902,  and  the  water  was  so  high  the  apple 
trees  down  on  the  flat  only  showed  a  little  of  their  top 
brush  above  the  surface.  Crops  were  washed  away 
and  houses  flooded,  and  more  than  one  good  farm  was 
covered  with  gravel.  The  water  soon  went  down,  for 
this  is  a  very  flashy  stream.  No  other  river  in  the 
state  rises  and  falls  so  quickly. 

"After  that  big  flood  every  sag  in  the  flats  held  a 
pond  that  was  full  of  fish,  and  the  boys  would  go  and 
ketch  with  their  bare  hands  all  they  could  carry  home. 
An  extremely  cold  winter  followed,  which  froze  all 
the  flood-ponds  where  the  fish  had  got  imprisoned  clear 
to  the  bottom,  and  not  a  blooming  fish  survived. 
Even  the  kids  won't  go  fishing  now,  and  the  only  fish 
we  ever  see  in  the  river  are  a  few  of  these  white  suckers 
that  come  down  in  the  spring  from  the  side  streams. 

''Thirty  or  forty  years  ago  all  the  flats  along  the 
river  were  used  for  growing  broomcorn,  and  this  was  a 
dandy  place  for  boys  in  their  teens.  They  could  work 
in  the  fields  in  summer,  and  in  the  broomshops  in 
winter,  and  make  big  money.  Now  broomcorn  is 
grown  cheaper  in  the  West,  and  we've  gone  into  other 
crops.  You'll  find  more  potatoes  raised  here  than 
anything  else.  In  the  early  days,  if  a  man  had  an  acre 
of  potatoes,  he  didn't  know  what  in  Sam  Hill  to  do 
with  'em,  except  what  his  family  could  eat.  He  had  no 
city  market  within  reach;  but  with  the  growth  of  the 
towns  and  the  building  of  railroads  it's  different.  We 
can  sell  what  we  raise  now,  though  I  don't  think  the 


l6        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

potatoes  are  so  good.  For  some  reason  or  other  we 
plant  later,  and  they  don't  get  ripe  enough.  You  might 
just  as  well  eat  a  piece  of  green  pumpkin  as  an  unripe 
potato;  but  the  city  people  don't  know  a  good  potato 
when  they  see  one — that's  the  God's  truth. 

"Last  year  a  good  many  farmers  didn't  dig  till  the 
potatoes  froze  and  was  teetotally  spoiled.  They  wa'n't 
worth  five  cents  a  bushel,  and  yet  lots  of  them  frost- 
bitten potatoes  were  marketed  just  the  same  as  if 
they'd  been  all  right.  For  seed  they  were  no  earthly 
use.  If  they  were  planted  they'd  come  up,  but  the 
confounded  things  wouldn't  grow.  My  son  was  about 
the  only  farmer  around  here  who  dug  and  got  in  his 
potatoes  early.  The  consequence  was  that  men  came 
from  all  over  creation  to  buy  seed  of  him. 

"If  you've  been  around  among  the  farms  much 
you've  noticed  considerable  many  empty  houses.  You 
might  think  deserted  farms  could  be  picked  up  at  a 
bargain.  But  really  there's  no  cheap  land  to  be  had. 
It's  all  worked.  The  value  of  a  place  depends  a  good 
deal  on  how  the  owner  takes  care  of  it.  There  was  an 
unthrifty  sort  of  a  fellow  over  the  river  who  inherited 
a  nice  farm  there,  and  his  head  swelled  so  big  because 
of  this  sudden  wealth  that  it  wouldn't  hold  together. 
Dog-goned  if  he  didn't  go  in  debt  to  buy  a  farm  across 
the  road  from  his  in  order  to  get  rid  of  having  an  Irish- 
man for  a  close  neighbor.  Ordinarily  nationality  or 
religion  don't  cut  no  figure  here,  and  it  would  have  been 
better  for  this  man  if  he'd  been  less  prejudiced.    He 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  17 

had  more  land  than  he  could  work  before,  and  by  and 
by  there  was  a  sheriff's  sale.  The  two  farms  only 
brought  four  thousand  dollars;  and  by  the  big  horn!  it 
was  an  Irishman  that  bought  'em.  You  couldn't  get 
'em  now  for  fifteen  thousand.  He's  made  good  farms 
of  'em — no  two  ways  about  it. 

"I  can  remember  when  eight  dollars  an  acre  was 
considered  a  fair  price  for  cut-off  pine-stump  land  suit- 
able for  wheat.  Wheat  land  was  the  only  land  that  was 
really  valued,  and  the  rest  you  could  buy  almighty 
cheap.  The  old  original  settlers,  in  the  course  of  time, 
would  sell  out  to  some  young  man  at  a  high  price,  and 
he'd  go  over  the  land  year  after  year  raising  wheat, 
but  putting  on  no  fertilizer,  until  he'd  wheated  it  out. 
Then — whift!  he'd  go  West  and  start  again  with  new 
soil  where  a  farm  could  be  had  almost  for  the  asking. 

"But  someone  would  always  take  the  old  place  here. 
The  kind  of  fellow  who  made  a  financial  success  on  the 
farm  was  one  who  was  willing  to  work,  rain  or  shine, 
from  daylight  to  dark.  Monkey  business  won't  do. 
But  farming  don't  seem  to  attract  our  young  people 
much,  and  their  education  mostly  pulls  them  away  from 
it.  They  want  to  get  a  living  without  working  with 
their  hands.  As  soon  as  their  schooldays  are  over  they 
skip  to  the  city.  You  know  what  that  means — no 
more  wash-tub,  or  sweat,  or  muscular  exertion  as  a 
means  of  earning  money.  They'll  accept  any  sort  of 
wages  rather  than  go  back  to  the  farm.  The  girls  are 
just  as  wild  in  this  matter  as  the  boys.    They  wouldn't 


1 8        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

wash  dishes  if  you  was  to  give  'em  ten  dollars  a  week, 
and  there  ain't  half  of  'em  could  make  a  shirt  and  sew  a 
button  on  it. 

*'If  things  keep  on  in  this  way  I  don't  know  where 
it'll  pan  out.  The  fact  is,  this  is  a  peculiar  nation  of 
ours,  and  in  some  respects  it  has  been  a  humbug  from 
first  to  last.  For  instance,  see  how  it  used  to  be  a  free 
country  with  slavery  in  it.  Our  politics  are  a  disgrace 
to  the  world.  Every  law  for  the  protection  of  the  people 
seems  to  have  a  hole  in  it  as  big  as  your  head.  They 
make  the  laws  that  way  on  purpose,  and  the  trusts  sit 
back  and  laugh  at  you.  It's  astonishing,  too,  the  kind 
of  men  that  capture  the  important  offices.  There  was 
Tom  Piatt — in  his  own  town  he  couldn't  have  been 
elected  as  a  gooseherd.  There  wasn't  a  greater  rascal 
out  of  jail,  and  yet,  by  thunder!  he  represented  this 
great  state  in  Washington  as  senator!  If  we  don't  make 
a  change  for  the  better  we'll  get  to  be  as  bad  as  Vene- 
zuela or  Mexico  or  any  of  the  other  countries  south 
of  us.  I've  been  voting  with  the  Republicans  ever  since 
1856;  but  they've  had  their  own  way  a  little  too  much. 
We've  got  to  turn  the  rascals  out  to  teach  'em  a  lesson, 
even  if  we  let  some  other  rascals  in,  and  I'm  going  to 
vote  the  Democratic  ticket  this  fall.  Yes,  I  hope  we'll 
throw  the  whole  concern  out  body  and  bones. 

"Now  we've  talked  so  long  I  won't  have  time  to  mow 
today.  Well,  never  mind,  talking  is  about  all  I'm  good 
for  at  my  age,  and  there's  another  day  coming,  or,  if 
there  ain't,  the  mowing  won't  matter  anyway." 


Making  ready  to  sozv  wheat 


The  Valley  of  the  Genesee  19 

Note. — At  the  eastern  end  of  Lake  Ontario  the  Thousand  Islands 
begin  with  the  outflow  of  the  river  St.  Lawrence,  and  these  are  one 
of  the  most  famous  attractions  of  the  Great  Lakes  region.  They  are 
best  seen  by  taking  a  trip  down  the  river,  and  are  more  naturally 
included  in  a  tour  of  the  St.  Lawrence  Valley  than  in  that  of  the 
lakes.  A  steamer  voyage  on  Ontario  can  very  well  begin  among  the 
westernmost  of  the  Thousand  Islands  at  Clayton  and  it  can  continue 
nearly  the  full  two  hundred  mile  length  of  the  lake  to  Toronto.  An 
acquaintance  with  this  important  Canadian  city  will  be  appreciated 
by  most  travellers.  From  there  it  is  only  a  thirty  mile  journey  across 
the  lake  to  the  mouth  of  the  Niagara  River. 

In  this  chapter  I  have  indicated  some  of  the  interesting  features 
of  the  historic  Genesee  Valley.  Rochester  is  the  natural  stopping 
place  for  touring  in  the  valley,  and  the  city  itself  with  its  great  manu- 
factories, its  fine  parks,  and  the  river  making  a  fall  of  nearly  one 
hundred  feet  in  its  midst,  is  worthy  of  special  attention.  Main 
Street  crosses  the  river  by  a  concealed  bridge,  lined  on  both  sides 
with  houses,  just  as  was  old  London  Bridge.  Near  by,  the  Erie 
Canal  is  conducted  over  the  river  by  an  aqueduct.  The  lake  is 
within  easy  reach.  In  the  other  direction  is  pastoral  farming 
country;  but  keep  on  south  for  fifty  miles  and  you  are  amid  rude 
hills,  and  here  are  the  three  Portage  Falls  that  vary  in  height  from 
seventy  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet.  These  falls,  with  the  wild 
gorge  through  which  the  stream  flows  and  the  piquant  broken 
country  roundabout,  are  well  worth  visiting. 


II 


A  VOYAGE  ON  THE  ERIE  CANAL 

THE  most  widely-famed  commercial  outlet  of  the 
Great  Lakes  is  the  Erie  Canal,  which  furnishes 
a  waterway  across  New  York  State  to  the 
Hudson.  It  was  completed  in  1825.  Not  until  five 
years  later  was  the  first  railroad  in  the  state  begun,  and 
the  canal,  in  its  early  days,  was  a  popular  thoroughfare 
of  travel  as  well  as  of  trade.  The  passenger  boats,  or 
packet  boats,  as  they  were  called,  accommodated  about 
thirty  persons.  They  were  fitted  up  with  dining-rooms, 
and  they  had  separate  apartments  for  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, which  were  lined  with  berths.  The  fare  was  three 
cents  a  mile.  Dinner  cost  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents, 
breakfast  twenty-five,  lodging  twelve  and  a  half.  Three 
stout  horses  towed  the  boat  at  a  brisk  trot,  and  were 
exchanged  for  fresh  ones  at  the  end  of  every  ten  miles. 
Two  horses,  or  sometimes  a  single  one,  sufficed  to  tow 
the  freight  boats;  and  passengers  with  more  time  than 
money  travelled  on  these  slower  craft  at  a  cost  of  a  cent 
and  a  half  a  mile. 

The  waterway  was  spanned  by  frequent  bridges, 
some  of  which  were  so  low  as  to  make  it  hazardous  to 
sit  on  the  upper  deck.     But  when  the  boat  approached 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  21 

a  bridge  of  this  sort,  the  helmsman  called  out  in  a  loud 
voice,  "Low  bridge!"  and  the  passengers  promptly 
ducked  their  heads.  The  packet  boats  carried  the  mails 
and  were  met  at  every  important  point  by  stages  con- 
necting with  the  neighboring  towns  and  villages. 

For  several  decades  the  canal  was  the  all-important 
transportation  route  between  the  Great  Lakes  and  the 
Atlantic.  Passengers  found  the  packet  boats  far  prefer- 
able to  the  jolting  and  often  overcrowded  stage-coaches, 
and  even  the  railroads  did  not  at  first  successfully 
compete  with  the  canal's  popularity.  But  since  about 
i860  its  traffic  has  been  gradually  declining. 

The  packet  boats  have  long  since  ceased  their  jour- 
neying, but  the  freight  boats  still  ply  back  and  forth; 
and  I  wondered  what  the  characteristics  of  life  on  the 
canal  were  now.  While  I  was  in  Rochester,  I  looked 
down  on  its  slow  traffic  from  a  bridge  in  the  heart  of 
the  city  where  a  broad  business  street  crossed  the 
waterway.  That  full,  gentle  stream  and  the  ponderous 
boats  moving  so  smoothly  and  silently  seemed  quite 
idyllic,  but  I  did  not  like  to  see  the  draught  animals 
straining  so  hard  and  continuously.  Their  work  was 
plainly  unrelieved  drudgery.  Yet  for  the  crews  I 
thought  the  life  must  conduce  to  philosophic  contem- 
plation and  serenity.  There  was  the  captain  leaning 
lazily  against  the  tiller,  and  only  rarely  needing  to  shift 
his  position  to  keep  the  boat  to  a  steady  course  in  mid- 
channel.  One  of  his  men  was  leisurely  pacing  the  tow- 
path  driving  the  mules,  and  two  or  three  other  men  were 


22        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

on  board  with  little  to  do,  apparently,  for  they  simply 
lounged  about  and  watched  with  mild  interest  such 
sights  of  the  city  as  their  viewpoint  afforded. 

The  charm  of  this  sort  of  voyaging  so  appealed  to  me 
that  I  determined  to  try  it  for  myself;  but  I  was  a  little 
doubtful  how  much  of  it  I  would  find  enjoyable,  and  I 
decided  to  attempt  no  more  than  the  journey  from 
Lockport  to  the  Niagara  River.  At  Lockport  is  the 
most  notable  series  of  locks  on  the  canal — a  gigantic 
double  stairway  of  five  watery  steps,  twelve  feet  to  a 
step.  The  scene  at  the  lower  end,  with  the  towering 
buildings  of  the  city  rising  on  either  side  of  a  deep 
chasm  is  quite  imposing.  As  I  looked  at  the  bordering 
structures  through  the  silvery  haze  of  a  morning  mist 
their  seeming  height  was  increased,  and  their  pic- 
turesque skyline  made  me  fancy  I  was  gazing  at  some 
hoary  castle  of  old  Europe. 

Traffic  was  not  very  lively  at  the  locks.  "I  c'n 
remember  when  there  was  eleven  thousand  boats  on  the 
canal,"  said  one  of  the  lockmen;  "but  now  there  ain't 
five  hundred.  More  boats  used  to  pass  through  here  in 
a  day  than  go  through  now  in  a  week. " 

While  he  was  speaking  three  west-bound  boats  came 
along,  and  one  at  a  time  entered  the  successive  stages 
of  the  locks.  There  was  little  noise  or  fluster — the  men 
adjusted  ropes  and  called  back  and  forth,  and  the  mules 
that  did  the  towing  were  now  urged  forward  and  now 
halted,  and  a  slight  gushing  of  water  could  be  heard 
when  the  locks  swung  open.    As  soon  as  one  of  the  great 


Entering  the  locks  at  Lockport 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  23 

boats  was  in  a  lock  it  rose  smoothly  and  steadily  as  if 
by  magic. 

I  scraped  acquaintance  with  the  captain  of  the  fleet, 
and  he  readily  agreed  that  I  should  go  along  as  a  pas- 
senger. To  get  on  was  very  easy,  for  the  boats  lacked 
only  a  few  inches  of  being  as  wide  as  the  locks,  and  I 
had  simply  to  wait  till  a  boat  rose  to  the  level  of  the 
stone  abutments  and  then  step  directly  on  to  the  deck. 
The  boats  were  empty  and  rode  high  on  the  water,  and 
when  the  lock  filled  I  looked  down  from  quite  an 
elevation. 

After  the  boats  had  all  reached  the  upper  level,  they 
were  tackled  snuggly  together  and  proceeded  on  their 
way.  At  first  we  passed  through  a  gloomy  tunnel  under 
a  portion  of  the  city  paving,  and  then  on  beneath  an 
occasional  bridge  until  we  reached  the  open  country. 
But  our  view  was  still  circumscribed,  for  the  waterway 
was  in  a  rocky  cut,  the  walls  of  which  had  no  gaps  to 
allow  a  glimpse  beyond.  A  clear  September  sun  was 
shining,  and  we  found  the  weather  uncomfortably 
warm. 

"I  can  tell  you  it's  good  and  hot  here  in  summer," 
remarked  the  captain.  "You  see  there's  never  no  wind 
through  this  rock  cut.  I'll  invite  you  down  in  my  cabin 
when  I  get  it  cleaned  up.    It's  cool  there." 

The  cleaning  was  soon  done,  and  I  descended  the 
steep  narrow  stairs.  It  was  a  pleasant  change  from  the 
outer  glare  and  heat,  and  except  for  a  horsey  odor  the 
air  was  sweet  and  pure.     I  had  not  appreciated  before 


24        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

how  smoothly  we  moved  along.  The  motion  was 
scarcely  perceptible,  and  I  only  realized  that  we  were 
going  forward  when  I  caught  glimpses  of  tree-tops 
through  the  window  screens.  The  apartment  was  small, 
and  space  was  economized  to  the  utmost.  In  one  corner 
was  a  cookstove  that  could  be  shut  away  by  sliding 
doors,  in  another  corner  was  a  folding  bed,  and  in  a 
third  corner  was  a  couch.  Cupboards  and  drawers 
occupied  every  niche,  and  a  table  and  several  chairs 
besides  the  other  furniture  mentioned  left  very  little 
free  floor  space. 

Most  captains  are  married  and  the  wife  goes  along  to 
cook,  and  they  are  likely  to  have  their  children  travel- 
ling with  them.  But  "Cap'n  Jim,"  as  his  crew  called 
him,  was  a  bachelor,  and  he  was  doing  his  own  cooking 
this  trip.  On  the  trip  previous  he  had  carried  a  hired 
cook — a  rather  erratic  and  headstrong  young  woman 
who  had  not  been  an  unqualified  success.  "Her  cooking 
was  all  right,"  the  captain  acknowledged.  "The  main 
trouble  was  that  she  talked  too  blame  much.  I  had  an 
argument  with  her  one  day  and  threatened  to  throw 
her  overboard.  So  when  we  reached  port  she  went  off 
In  a  huff".  The  cooking  In  addition  to  my  other  work 
keeps  me  pretty  busy.  We're  hearty  eaters,  and  I  have 
to  get  meat  and  potatoes  three  times  a  day.  Bacon  and 
ham  and  salt  pork  are  our  standbys  In  the  meat  line; 
but  there  are  places  along  where  we  get  steak,  and  we 
often  buy  sweet  corn  and  other  garden  truck.  The 
prices  are  way  up  for  most  of  the  food  we  use.    I  had  to 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  25 

buy  some  butter  yesterday.  It  cost  me  thirty-six  cents 
a  pound;  but  down  in  New  York  City  I  got  as  good 
butter  as  anyone  would  want  to  put  in  his  mouth  for 
twenty-eight  cents." 

On  the  cabin  walls  were  a  gaudy  advertising  calendar, 
a  colored  home  scene,  and  photographs  of  an  old- 
fashioned  looking  man  and  woman — the  captain's  father 
and  mother.  "They  made  canal-boating  their  busi- 
ness," said  he,  "and  I  was  born  and  brought  up  on  the 
canal.  I  had  to  stay  on  shore  and  go  to  school  when  I 
was  a  small  boy,  but  later,  until  I  was  about  twenty,  I 
was  on  the  canal  summers  and  went  to  school  winters. 
I  began  driving  by  the  time  I  was  eleven.  We  had  one 
canal  boat,  and  four  mules,  which  we  used  two  at  a  time. 
During  the  day  I'd  generally  follow  the  mules  on  foot, 
but  at  night  I'd  be  riding  on  one  of  'em  half  the  time." 

Cap'n  Jim  had  started  a  fire  in  the  stove  and  was 
peeling  potatoes.  Now  he  rose  and  looked  out  of  the 
hatchway  to  see  that  everything  was  going  all  right. 
Martin  was  steering  and  Johnny  was  on  the  towpath. 
The  two  remaining  members  of  the  crew,  Patrick, 
or  "Paddy"  as  his  mates  usually  called  him,  and 
"Whitey, "  were  asleep  in  one  of  the  other  cabins. 
Whitey,  whose  nickname  referred  to  his  tow-colored 
hair,  was  employed  for  the  season,  and  so  was  Paddy. 
The  other  two  were  "trippers,"  and  they  simply  went 
back  and  forth  between  the  western  canal  terminus  at 
Buffalo  and  the  eastern  one  at  Troy.  While  the  boats 
journeyed  on  the  Hudson  to  and  from  New  York  these 


26        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

extra  men  were  not  needed.  Neither  were  they  needed 
for  loading  or  unloading.  It  was  the  same  on  all  the 
canal-boats.  A  full  crew  was  kept  only  when  the  mules 
were  on  the  towpath. 

"It's  like  this,"  observed  the  captain,  after  he  had 
returned  to  his  potato-paring;  "canal-boating  is  expen- 
sive, and  we  have  to  save  where  we  can.  There's  only  a 
five  months'  season.  That's  the  worst  of  this  business; 
and  your  mules  eat  the  year  round,  though  in  the  winter 
they  don't  do  nothing  to  earn  you  a  cent.  My  expenses 
with  these  three  boats  average  fifteen  dollars  a  day 
while  I'm  on  the  canal.  In  port  that  figure  is  cut  down 
some.  The  trippers  wouldn't  be  worth  their  salt  then, 
even  if  I  kept  'em.  They'd  be  around  the  saloons  all 
the  time.  Most  of  'em  are  hard  drinkers,  and  they  are 
not  apt  to  be  in  condition  to  do  good  work  when  you 
take  'em  on.  I  have  to  kind  of  doctor  'em  up  as  we're 
getting  out  of  port;  and  no  sooner  do  we  reach  the  end 
of  our  voyage  than  they  bother  the  life  out  of  me  till 
they  get  their  money  so  they  can  go  on  another  booze. 

"The  fellow  who's  steering  now  used  to  have  a 
grocery  in  Utica,  but  it  went  down  his  neck — he  drank 
all  his  property.  He's  intelligent,  educated,  and 
capable,  and  he  has  good  family  connections,  yet  he's 
a  hopeless  bum.  He  didn't  have  a  cent  when  I  picked 
him  up  in  Troy  this  time.  He  was  down  and  out,  you 
might  say.  All  he  had  was  the  clothes  that  are  on  his 
back,  and  some  of  those  are  mine. 

"But  I  can  say  this  for  the   trippers — they're  not 


Dinner  preparations 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  27 

selfish  or  mean.  They'll  always  hand  out  a  quarter  or  a 
half  dollar  to  a  comrade  who's  broke,  if  they  have  it. 

"I  paid  a  young  fellow  oflF  in  Buffalo  last  summer — 
gave  him  forty  dollars,  and  the  next  morning  he  hadn't 
a  cent.  He'd  gone  on  a  spree,  and  dropped  down  in  the 
back  room  of  a  saloon  to  sleep,  and  some  of  the  hangers- 
on  of  the  place  took  what  money  he  had  left.  They 
even  stole  his  shoes,  so  he  was  barefoot.  That  sort  of 
thing  is  liable  to  happen  to  most  of  'em. 

"If  you  was  to  discharge  a  tripper  between  ports  he'd 
think  it  was  terrible,  but  they  quit  you  any  time  they 
please.  They're  makin'  the  best  of  wages  all  summer, 
and  in  the  fall,  which  is  the  time  when  freighting  on  the 
canal  is  most  rushing  and  profitable,  we  have  to  pay  'em 
three  or  four  dollars  a  day  and  board.  Good  mechanics 
with  tools  don't  get  the  wages  these  fellows  do.  Yet  it 
all  goes.  In  the  winter  they're  off  in  the  woods  and  all 
over  at  work,  if  they  do  work.  A  good  many  are  sup- 
ported in  cold  weather  by  the  taxpayers.  They  go  to 
jail  purposely — get  drunk,  you  know,  and  create  just 
enough  disturbance  to  be  sent  up  till  spring." 

Dinner  preparations  steadily  progressed  while  the 
captain  talked,  and  presently  he  summoned  the  two 
sleepers.  When  they  joined  us  we  sat  down  at  the  table 
and  had  a  good  square  meal,  except  there  was  no  dessert. 
As  to  that  Cap'n  Jim  remarked  jokingly,  "I  don't  feed 
the  men  pie  because  It  makes  the  drivers'  feet  sore." 

After  we  finished  eating,  the  boats  were  brought  to  a 
stop  beside  the  towpath,  and  the  mules  were  changed. 


28       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

In  the  bow  of  the  foremost  boat  was  a  little  stable  cabin. 
It  only  projected  slightly  above  the  deck,  and  the  mules 
quartered  there  were  in  what  would  be  equivalent  to  a 
cellar  hole  on  land.  The  entire  six  could  be  packed  into 
this  cabin,  but  during  the  canal  voyage  they  took  turns, 
three  and  three.  On  the  deck  was  a  light,  strong  bridge, 
one  end  of  which  was  now  slid  down  to  the  towpath, 
and  the  other  end  adjusted  against  the  edge  of  the  boat 
opposite  a  scuttle  in  the  stable  cabin.  Down  into  the 
cabin  itself  extended  a  slatted  gangway,  and  the  mules 
climbed  in  and  out  much  as  if  they  were  going  up  and 
over  the  ridge  of  a  house.  i\s  each  of  the  mules  from  the 
towpath  came  up  the  bridge  the  driver  followed,  hang- 
ing on  to  the  creature's  tail.  This  was  supposed  to  steer 
it  and  keep  it  to  the  narrow  path  of  safety.  But  a  canal- 
boatman  whom  I  later  met  in  Buffalo  and  questioned 
about  this  custom  said:  "Oh,  that's  all  nonsense!  Of 
course  you  have  to  learn  'em  to  go  in  and  out,  but  when 
you've  got  'em  learnt,  the  less  guiding  you  do  the  better. 
They  can  take  care  of  themselves  much  better  than  you 
can  do  it  for  them.  I  tell  you  there's  many  an  accident 
on  the  canal  that's  blamed  on  the  poor  mules  when  the 
real  fault  lies  with  the  driver  or  owner. " 

After  the  mules  came  on  board  the  driver  watered 
and  fed  them,  and  the  captain  rubbed  a  healing  mixture 
on  their  sore  shoulders.  They  always  have  sore  shoul- 
ders owing  to  the  chafing  of  their  heavy  collars,  and  the 
raw  red  patches  seemed  to  argue  that  they  led  a  hard 
life  and  did  not  last  long.    Cap'n  Jim,  however,  affirmed 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  29 

that  the  facts  did  not  support  such  an  inference.  "To 
be  sure  this  ain't  no  soft  job,"  he  commented,  "and 
that's  the  reason  comparatively  few  horses  are  used. 
They  can't  stand  it  like  mules,  and  yet  I've  knowed  of 
a  horse  that  towed  for  twenty-one  years.  Really 
there's  no  stock  so  well  taken  care  of  as  canal  stock.  I 
rub  my  mules'  shoulders  every  time  they  come  off  the 
towpath,  and  each  time,  too,  I  scrape  and  dry  their 
collars.  They  work  six  hours  at  a  stretch,  covering  in 
that  time  about  ten  miles.  We  keep  going  day  and 
night  on  the  canal,  but  there's  usually  several  days'  rest 
when  we  get  to  port.  At  the  New  York  end  the  rest  is 
often  a  little  too  long.  The  mules  stay  right  there  in 
the  cabin  and  eat.  They  can't  move  around  to  get  any 
exercise,  and  that  makes  it  come  harder  on  them  when 
they  get  back  to  the  towpath. 

"They  are  mostly  pretty  steady  and  give  us  little 
trouble.  But  once  in  a  while  a  mule  will  object  to 
climbing  up  the  bridge.  One  of  ours  got  balky  and 
backed  off  the  bridge  into  the  water  last  spring.  We 
got  him  out  of  the  canal,  but  we  couldn't  induce  him  to 
go  near  the  bridge  again.  The  weather  was  cold  and  it 
was- snowing  and  blowing,  and  in  order  not  to  have  the 
mule  sick  we  blanketed  him  and  walked  him  up  and 
down  the  towpath  all  night. 

"Once  in  a  while  a  team  is  drowned.  As  a  general 
thing  the  mules  drown  each  other.  A  single  animal 
would  swim,  but  when  they  are  hooked  together  they 
get  tangled  up  in  the  harness  and  the  tow-rope,  and  it 


30        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

ain't  easy  for  us  to  help  them,  or  for  the  mules  to  help 
themselves.  Sometimes  we  rescue  one,  sometimes  two, 
but  usually  we  lose  'em  all." 

Martin  and  Johnny  were  now  eating  dinner,  while 
Whitey  was  at  the  wheel,  and  Paddy  was  on  the  tow- 
path  following  the  mules.  The  animals  were  hitched 
abreast,  and  tugged  steadily  at  the  long  rope.  They 
did  not  require  much  urging  or  guiding.  At  times  the 
driver  laid  hold  of  the  rope  and  got  a  little  relaxation 
by  letting  them  pull  him  along.  Once  when  I  looked 
in  his  direction  he  was  nowhere  in  sight.  But  Whitey 
pointed  to  a  rude  barn-like  saloon  by  the  towpath  and 
said,  "  I  guess  he's  gone  in  there  to  take  a  snifter. " 

Sure  enough,  he  soon  came  out  of  the  door,  wiped  his 
mouth  on  his  sleeve,  and  at  a  hurried,  hobbling  gait 
went  along  after  the  mules,  shouting,  and  shaking  his 
whip,  for  they  had  just  then  left  the  towpath  to  seek  the 
shade  of  a  wayside  tree. 

We  were  in  the  open  country  now,  and  the  channel 
was  bordered  by  grassy  banks  brightened  with  asters 
and  goldenrod.  We  could  see  farmhouses,  and  big 
barns,  and  ample  straw  stacks,  and  sometimes  a  village 
cluster  with  a  church  spire  thrusting  up  above  the 
environing  foliage.  Often  a  country  road  bordered  the 
"heelpath"  side  of  the  canal,  as  that  side  is  called 
opposite  the  towpath,  and  there  were  teams  driving 
along,  and  we  could  see  men  working  in  the  fields,  and 
children  playing  about  the  houses.  Rowboats  were 
hitched  by  the  shore,  and  the  farm  ducks  paddled  about 


\ 


Steerini'  a  mule  lo  ihf  cabin  slable 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  31 

on  the  sluggish  current.  Occasionally  we  disturbed  the 
meditations  of  a  kingfisher,  and  it  uttered  its  stuttering 
cry  and  sped  away  in  jerking  flight.  Once  or  twice  we 
saw  a  long-legged  crane,  or  "shikepoke,"  flopping 
soberly  on  its  way  high  up  in  the  air.  "Oh,  there's  all 
kinds  of  birds  along  the  canal,"  said  Whitey.  "We  see 
lots  of  'em  every  day,  and  at  night  when  we  get  in  the 
woods  we  hear  the  screech  owls.  Last  fall  pheasants 
were  plenty.  I  saw  one  fellow  who  had  nearly  two 
dozen.  Pheasants  are  fine  eating.  They  got  chicken 
beat  out  of  sight." 

Just  then  we  heard  the  report  of  a  gun  and  observed 
a  hunter  on  the  heelpath  shore.  "He's  after  some  of 
those  yellow-legged  snipe,"  affirmed  Whitey.  "It's 
kind  of  wild  on  that  side  along  here,  and  the  mud  and 
flags  and  bushes  suit  the  snipe  exactly." 

I  had  often  seen  the  snipe  during  the  day  running 
along  by  the  water's  edge.  They  have  a  nervous  excited 
way  about  them,  and  are  always  making  little  flights 
from  one  spot  to  another,  never  seeming  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  place  where  they  happen  to  be. 

"Now  we're  coming  to  a  low  bridge,"  Whitey  in- 
formed me.  "You'll  have  to  get  off  the  roof  of  the 
cabin  where  you're  sitting  and  stoop  down.  Do  you 
see  that  long  deep  scratch  in  the  roof  planks.''  There's  a 
bridge  so  darn  low  back  here  at  Twelve  Acre  Level  that 
we  struck  it.  The  water's  high  just  now,  but  in  that 
long  dry  spell  in  the  summer  it  got  down  so  the  loaded 
boats  could  hardly  navigate.    Some  of  'em  had  to  wait 


32        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

for  a  rise.  The  more  water  there  is  the  easier  the  boats 
slip  along.  They're  enlarging  the  canal  now,  and  in- 
creasing the  depth  from  nine  to  twelve  feet.  When  you 
pass  from  the  old  depth  to  the  new  you  can  tell  the 
difference  right  off  in  the  way  the  boats  tow — you  bet 
you  can! 

"The  state  is  spending  one  hundred  and  ten  millions 
on  the  job,  and  in  places  the  canal  is  all  torn  up.  The 
work  pays  good  wages  to  a  very  large  number  of  men, 
but  it  makes  a  dickens  of  a  lot  of  trouble  for  us.  Prob- 
ably the  money'U  be  all  spent  before  the  job  is  anywhere 
near  done,  and  then  the  voters  will  be  asked  for  more. 
That's  the  way  usually. 

"Besides  deepening  the  canal  they're  increasing  the 
width  at  the  bottom  from  fifty-two  to  seventy-five 
feet.  That  will  fit  it  for  boats  four  times  as  large  as 
these.  I  expect  power  boats  will  be  used  altogether, 
and  towing  with  mules  will  be  a  thing  of  the  past.  The 
present  boat-owners  will  hardly  be  able  to  make  such  a 
large  investment  as  the  new  boats  will  require,  and  the 
railroads  or  some  big  company  will  take  up  the  business. 
Well,  I  sha'n't  mourn  any.  Canal  work,  as  things  are, 
is  a  little  too  strenuous.  We  work  six  hours  to  a  trick, 
and  that  means  you've  got  to  be  out  half  the  night. 
Sundays  are  just  the  same  as  any  other  day  on  most 
boats.  But  once  in  a  while  you  find  kind  of  a  religious 
crank  who  ties  up.  There's  only  two  such  captains  on 
the  canal  at  present,  and  that  sort  never  was  numerous. 
This  job  would  be  all  right,  in  spite  of  the  Sunday 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  33 

work,  if  a  fellow  could  go  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  and  stay  there  till  morning;  but  you  are  not 
even  sure  of  having  the  time  you're  off  your  trick  undis- 
turbed. Things  happen  so  your  help  is  needed,  and 
aside  from  the  times  that  can't  be  foreseen,  we're  all 
called  out,  except  one  driver,  every  time  there's  a  lock 
to  work  through.  It's  no  joke,  when  the  weather's 
nice  and  frosty,  to  have  to  leave  your  warm  bed  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  for  instance.  There  are  seventy- 
two  locks  on  the  canal,  from  one  to  five  in  a  place,  and 
you  can  judge  that  we're  routed  out  pretty  often;  but 
we  never  make  up  for  work  overtime  on  this  blanked 
job.  If  I  complain  to  the  Cap'n  about  my  hours  being 
broken  into,  he  says,  'You'll  have  all  the  rest  you  want 
down  on  the  river.' 

"Well,  we  do  take  it  easy  when  we  get  to  the  Hudson 
and  while  we  are  in  New  York.  All  I  have  to  do  down 
in  the  city  after  I  get  up  in  the  morning  is  to  wash  off 
the  decks,  and  that  only  takes  about  fifteen  minutes. 
Those  decks  have  to  be  washed  off  every  day,  no  matter 
where  we  are,  and  clean  or  no  clean.  That  done,  I  sit 
down  and  read  the  paper,  and  I  usually  spend  the  rest 
of  the  day  loafing  around  the  boat.  But  when  night 
comes  I  walk  up  street  and  take  in  the  shows  on  the 
Bowery  and  everything.  I  never  save  any  money  in 
New  York.  Sometimes  we're  there  for  a  week  or  more 
before  what  we  carry  is  unloaded.  Often,  too,  we  have 
to  wait  a  few  days  in  Buffalo.  This  time,  though,  we've 
got  a  cargo  of  grain  all  engaged.    We'll  reach  port  about 


34       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

midnight.  Then  it'll  take  us  an  hour  or  so  to  get  every- 
thing in  shape  for  loading.  After  that  we  can  go  to  bed, 
but  we  must  turn  out  as  soon  as  breakfast  is  ready  in  the 
morning.  The  Cap'n  has  been  joking  us  and  saying  if 
we  want  a  shave  we'd  better  wake  up  the  barber  after 
we  get  to  Buffalo  tonight.  You  see,  it  only  takes  a  little 
while  to  load.  If  they  use  two  spouts  at  the  grain 
elevator  they  can  fill  a  boat  in  half  an  hour.  As  soon  as 
we  are  loaded,  off  we'll  start.  So  our  trippers  will  go 
back  with  us  this  time.  Usually  they  receive  their  pay, 
and  have  a  spree,  and  get  away  on  some  other  boat 
before  the  one  they  came  on  is  ready  to  leave. 

"I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  me  if  I  wa'n't 
on  the  canal  summers.  I  work  every  day  in  winter,  and 
yet  I  can't  save  enough  to  buy  a  pair  of  shoes,  because 
in  the  evenings  I  find  it  so  easy  to  spend  all  I  earn. 
Oh,  this  is  better  than  any  shore  job.  I  get  hardly  a 
chance  to  spend  a  cent  on  the  canal  trips." 

About  this  time  we  met  one  tow  and  passed  another. 
The  former  consisted  of  two  boats  piled  above  and  below 
decks  with  lumber,  and  the  latter  was  a  three-boat 
tow  of  gravel,  sunk  low  in  the  water  and  toiling  along 
much  slower  than  we  were.  For  a  little  while  things 
were  quite  exciting.  We  were  only  slightly  discom- 
moded ourselves,  but  the  tow-rope  of  the  lumber  boats 
got  caught  on  the  bottom  of  a  gravel  boat,  and  there 
was  much  shouting  and  swearing.  The  mules  of  the 
entangled  boats  were  hastily  untackled  to  keep  them 
from  being  dragged  into  the  canal,  and  the  drivers  ran 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  *  35 

hither  and  thither  taking  care  of  their  teams  and  mak- 
ing various  attempts  to  prevent  their  ropes  from  sliding 
into  the  water  beyond  reach.  Everybody  was  blaming 
everybody  else  with  no  end  of  rough  language,  while  as 
a  matter  of  fact  no  one  was  seriously  at  fault.  Just  how 
the  tows  untangled  themselves  I  did  not  see,  for  we 
went  steadily  on  our  way  and  soon  turned  a  bend  that 
shut  off  our  view  of  them. 

"Those  lumber  boats  was  in  the  same  tow  with  us 
going  down  the  Hudson  not  long  ago,"  said  Whitey. 
"We  visited  back  and  forth,  and  I  used  to  talk  politics 
with  the  lumber  cap'n.  He's  nervous  and  excitable, 
and  a  red-hot  Republican.  Oh,  I  had  him  jumping 
around  like  a  game-cock." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  canal  was  an  abandoned  boat 
half  full  of  water  and  deeply  imbedded  in  the  mud.  I 
asked  Whitey  what  had  happened  to  it.  "She  got  too 
old,  and  they  put  her  in  the  burying  ground,"  was  his 
reply. 

We  were  now  in  a  region  where  the  wind  had  a  clear 
sweep  across  the  low  flat  land  adjacent,  and  this  made 
the  navigating  of  our  empty  fleet  difficult.  However, 
we  got  along  fairly  well  until  we  met  a  tow  which 
bumped  us  against  the  bank.  We  were  brought  to  a 
stop  with  the  bow  of  one  of  our  boats  firmly  lodged  on 
some  rocks.  A  stout  plank  with  a  rope  attached  to  it 
was  gotten  out  from  below  deck,  Paddy  on  the  towpath 
adjusted  it,  and  heaved  at  it  with  his  shoulder,  while 
the  rest  of  us  pulled  on  the  rope.     I  began  to  fear  we 


36        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

were  stranded  for  good,  but  after  the  pry  had  been 
shifted  several  times  our  exertions  were  rewarded  and 
we  freed  ourselves. 

"We're  in  Tonawanda  Crick,"  observed  Cap'n  Jim, 
"and  it's  so  exposed  here,  and  there's  such  sharp  turns, 
that  we  sometimes  have  to  tie  up  when  the  wind  blows 
hard.  Other  times  we  are  bothered  here  by  fog.  No- 
body will  run  in  a  fog  on  this  crick,  except  a  few  crazy 
guys  who  won't  stop  for  anything." 

A  little  farther  on  we  halted  to  change  mules.  The 
normal  time  for  this  evening  change  was  seven  o'clock, 
and  such  was  the  time  indicated  by  the  cabin  clock,  but 
Cap'n  Jim  said  he  kept  his  timepiece  set  a  half  hour  fast 
at  this  season  of  the  year  so  the  mules  could  be  changed 
by  daylight.  Near  by  was  a  village,  and  there  were 
children  playing  on  the  towpath.  Some  of  them  began 
to  swing  on  a  rope  that  extended  from  our  boats  to  a 
tree.  Whitey,  after  watching  their  antics  for  a  few 
minutes,  amused  himself  by  suddenly  loosening  the 
rope  and  sending  the  astonished  youngsters  sprawling 
in  the  dirt. 

We  soon  resumed  our  journey.  A  lighted  electric 
car  was  speeding  along  on  the  other  side  of  the  canal. 
Whitey  looked  at  it  longingly.  "We've  still  got  a  hard 
five-hour  pull  before  us,"  said  he.  "I  wish  we  were  on 
that  car.    It  would  take  us  to  Buffalo  in  jig  time. " 

When  we  approached  Tonawanda  the  sun  had  gone 
down,  the  radiant  afterglow  was  fading  from  the  sky, 
and  the  sober  shades  of  night  were  thickening  over  the 


A  Voyage  on  the  Erie  Canal  37 

wide  landscape.  As  we  were  nearing  the  center  of  the 
busy  town  a  young  woman  hailed  us  from  a  sidewalk 
beyond  the  towpath,  and  she  kept  pace  with  the  boats 
while  the  captain  called  back  and  carried  on  a  conversa- 
tion with  her. 

"That's  our  cook!"  exclaimed  Whitey,  and  he 
doubled  up  with  merriment  at  thought  of  this  unex- 
pected meeting  and  recollection  of  her  lively  ways  on 
the  boats. 

Cap'n  Jim  was  negotiating  to  have  her  go  the  next 
trip  with  them;  but  whether  he  succeeded  or  not  I  do 
not  know,  for  here  my  voyage  ended.  Martin,  who  was 
at  the  wheel,  had  brought  the  tow  close  to  an  abutted 
portion  of  the  towpath  that  was  of  a  height  to  allow  me 
to  safely  jump  down  on  it.  I  made  the  leap,  and  the 
boats  swung  off  into  mid-channel  and  went  on  their  slow 
way  into  the  evening  gloom  with  never  a  pause. 

Note. — Anyone  particularly  desirous  of  making  a  canal-boat 
trip  would  probably  find  little  difficulty  in  doing  so;  but  most  would 
no  doubt  prefer  to  content  themselves  with  casual  glimpses  of  the 
waterway  and  its  boats  from  the  banks.  The  canal  is  exceptionally 
interesting  where  it  passes  through  Rochester,  but  is  still  more  inter- 
esting at  Lockport.  Anyone  wishing  to  go  on  board  to  see  some- 
thing of  the  people  and  their  home  arrangements  can  do  so  most 
easily  and  comfortably  by  visiting  the  boats  while  they  are  in  port 
at  Buffalo,  the  western  metropolis  of  the  lakes.  In  the  vicinity 
where  the  canal  boats  take  on  their  loads,  are  numerous  big  elevators 
and  these  with  the  varied  shipping  make  a  scene  of  industry  that  is 
uncommonly  fascinating.  It  was  only  after  the  construction  of  the 
canal  that  the  city  of  Buffalo  began  to  grow  rapidly.  The  first 
dwelling  for  a  white  man  was  erected  there  in  1791.  The  name  of 
the  city  is  supposed  to  be  derived  from  the  herds  of  buffalo  which 
frequented  the  creek  that  here  enters  the  lake. 


Ill 


TRAGIC  NIAGARA 

HE  went  over  right  there  where  you  see  that  little 
depression,  just  about  ten  feet  out  from  where 
we  stand,"  said  the  man  at  my  elbow. 

I  was  leaning  on  the  iron  railing  that  guards  the 
borders  of  the  falls  on  the  American  side,  one  among  a 
crowd  that  had  gathered  in  the  neighborhood  and 
divided  into  little  groups  intent  on  talking  over  this 
latest  Niagara  tragedy. 

"When  did  it  happen.^"  I  asked. 

"Not  quite  an  hour  ago.  I  was  here  and  I  saw  the 
whole  thing.  He  was  an  old  man  with  gray  hair.  I 
remember  I  noticed  him  a  few  minutes  before,  sitting  on 
that  first  settee  over  there  on  the  lawn.  After  a  while 
he  went  down  to  those  bushes  at  the  end  of  this  fence, 
where  you  see  that  sign,  'Do  not  venture  in  dangerous 
places.'  He  stopped  there  and  took  off  his  hat,  and 
pulled  out  of  his  coat  pocket  a  package  done  up  in  a 
napkin.  A  good  many  people  were  close  around,  but  he 
didn't  give  us  a  chance  to  interfere.  He  just  laid  his  hat 
on  the  ground  with  the  package  in  it,  pushed  through 
the  bushes  and  waded  out  into  the  water  until  the  rapids 
carried  him  off  his  feet.    The  men  on  shore  shouted,  and 


The    A^nerican    Falls 


Tragic  Niagara  39 

some  of  the  women  screamed,  but  we  couldn't  do  any- 
thing, and  in  almost  no  time  he  was  over  the  falls." 

Nothing  was  being  done  to  recover  the  man's  body, 
nor  was  there  aught  to  suggest  any  unusual  happening, 
and  the  tale  seemed  more  myth  than  fact.  I  looked 
at  the  niche  in  the  falls  where  the  man  had  disappeared, 
and  at  the  swift,  clear  waters  that  from  time  immemo- 
rial had  been  coursing  down  the  incline  and  over  the 
brink  of  the  precipice  exactly  as  I  saw  them  that  day. 
Below  was  a  frightful  abyss  of  foam  and  seething 
mists,  and  in  that  wild  tumult  a  human  life  had  been 
extinguished  only  an  hour  before.  Yet  the  giant  cataract 
gave  forth  no  sign.  The  eternal  flow  went  on,  and  the 
air  was  full  of  its  roar,  and  the  earth  trembled  with  its 
power.  There  was  something  satanic  in  its  might  and 
its  indifl"erence. 

"Who  was  the  man.'"'  I  asked  the  acquaintance  with 
whom  I  had  been  talking. 

"  Some  one  from  a  town  up  in  Canada,  near  Toronto. 
They  found  his  name  and  address  in  the  package  he 
left." 

"What  else  was  in  the  package.^" 

"Not  much.  A  little  money,  I  believe,  and  a  pair  of 
spectacles  in  a  tin  case.  That's  all,  so  far  as  I've  heard. 
It's  the  first  suicide  in  the  river  this  year.  The  Indians 
have  a  tradition  that  the  falls  demand  two  human  vic- 
tims every  year.  But  it's  been  a  long  time  since  so  few 
lives  have  been  lost  here.  There's  quite  a  number  of 
river  suicides  every  season.     An  odd  thing  about  'em 


40       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

is  that  when  we  have  one,  we're  sure  to  have  another 
within  a  very  short  time  afterward.  The  first  one 
seems  to  be  a  kind  of  reminder  to  people  who  have  a 
fancy  for  that  sort  of  performance.  We  had  seven 
Niagara  suicides  last  year,  and  in  the  city  here  there 
were  nine  others;  but  we  local  residents  never  end  our 
lives  in  the  river.  The  falls  don't  appeal  to  our  imagi- 
nation as  they  do  to  strangers',  and  we  know  too  well 
what  rough  treatment  one's  body  is  bound  to  get  in 
these  savage  waters.  The  idea  isn't  pleasant.  It's 
gruesome.  It's  horrid.  We  drown  ourselves  in  the 
canal,  hang  ourselves,  take  poison,  use  a  razor  or  revol- 
ver— anything  but  go  into  the  river." 

"Is  this  particular  spot  a  favorite  one  for  suicides?" 
I  inquired. 

"No,  I  don't  know  that  it  is.  They  are  liable  to  go  in 
almost  anywhere.  They  don't  all  go  over  the  falls. 
Some  jump  from  the  bridges,  and  some  into  the  Whirl- 
pool Rapids,  a  mile  down  the  river.  Of  course,  more  or 
less  of  'em  are  crazy,  but  most  are  just  sick  of  life  for 
some  reason  or  other  and  come  here  with  suicide  all 
planned.  Still,  I  think  many  cases  are  those  of  persons 
who  simply  get  fascinated  by  the  water  and  go  in  with- 
out any  premeditation.  I  have  a  little  of  that 
feeling  myself,  standing  here  and  seeing  that  water 
slide  over  the  edge  there  and  going  down  and  down  to 
such  a  great  depth;  and  I  know  a  man  that's  lately 
moved  into  the  city  who  never  lets  his  wife  come  here 
to  have  a  look  at  the  falls  unless  he's  with  her,  and  even 


Tragic  Niagara  41 

then  he  walks  on  the  water  side  of  her  to  keep  her  from 
throwing  herself  in  if  she  should  happen  to  catch  the 
impulse. 

"I  suppose  a  good  many  drown  themselves  that  we 
never  know  of.  No  one  sees  them  do  it,  and  they  are 
never  found  afterward — at  least,  not  so  they  can  be 
identified.  Take  a  person  that  goes  over  the  falls,  the 
chances  are,  if  the  body's  ever  recovered  at  all,  it'll  be 
picked  up  a  week  or  two  later  down  at  the  whirlpool, 
and  it'll  be  pretty  well  mangled  by  then.  That  whirl- 
pool is  a  curious  place.  It's  two  miles  below  here,  where 
the  river  makes  a  sudden  turn,  and  a  great  basin  has 
been  gouged  out  there  a  thousand  feet  in  diameter  with 
immense  cliffs  and  banks  dark  with  evergreens  all 
around.  It's  full  of  driftwood  that  can't  seem  to  get 
away  and  just  keeps  everlastingly  twisting  and  stewing 
there;  and  if  you  look  down  into  the  water  with  a  spy- 
glass, you  see  a  whole  menagerie  of  horses,  dogs,  etc., 
tha.t  have  floated  down  from  Buffalo  and  other  places. 

"Usually  the  suicides  leave  some  articles  behind  by 
which  they  can  be  identified,  just  as  this  man  did  today, 
and  it's  kind  of  customary  to  write  a  farewell  letter, 
but  then  we  don't  count  it  at  all  certain  when  we  find 
one  of  those  letters  that  anything  serious  has  hap- 
pened. You  see  we  have  a  lot  of  fake  suicides,  espe- 
cially over  on  Goat  Island.  They  write  a  note  and  say 
they  bid  good-by  to  things  earthly  and  are  going  over 
the  falls;  and  they  leave  that  note  where  it'll  be  picked 
up,  and  think  it's  a  clever  joke. 


42       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"I  recall  one  man,  though,  who  played  that  trick — 
not  for  a  joke,  but  to  get  his  life  insurance.  His  name 
was  Crandall.  A  while  after  \v.s  disappearance  and  the 
finding  of  the  letter,  a  body  was  picked  up  down  the 
river  which  his  relations  said  was  his,  and  they  buried  it 
in  the  family  plot.  They  got  his  insurance  all  right; 
but  some  one  saw  Crandall  himself  the  next  year  out  in 
California,  and  finally  they  jailed  him. 

"Occasionally  an  intended  suicide  is  prevented. 
Some  years  ago,  for  instance,  a  man  well  along  in  years 
arrived  here  in  company  with  a  young  woman.  They 
were  in  love  with  each  other,  but  as  luck  would  have  it, 
he  had  a  wife  already.  So,  as  they  couldn't  marry  and 
live  together,  they  decided  to  come  to  Niagara  and  die 
together.  But  when  they  got  here  the  girl's  courage 
failed  her.  He  was  ready  enough  and  her  timidity 
riled  him.  They  say  he  chased  her  all  around  the  park 
here  to  make  her  jump  in  with  him,  and  he'd  have 
succeeded  if  the  people  hadn't  interfered. 

"I  tried  my  hand  at  preventing  a  suicide  once.  An 
intelligent  middle-aged  woman  had  come  to  stay  a  few 
days  at  a  boarding  house  of  which  I'm  the  proprietor.- 
She  got  here  early  in  the  morning  and  she  stayed  in  her 
room  all  that  day,  only  coming  down  to  meals.  I 
noticed  from  the  first  that  she  was  dreadful  melancholy, 
and  her  eyes  were  red  with  crying.  'Well,'  I  said  to 
myself,  'it  looks  mighty  like  as  if  she'd  traveled  here  to 
make  way  with  herself,'  and  I  decided  I'd  watch  her. 
But  nothing  happened  until  evening,  when  I  met  her 


^ 


Tragic  Niagara  43 

in  the  hall  with  her  wraps  on.  She  said  she  guessed 
she'd  take  a  little  walk.  I  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but  I 
couldn't.  So  I  thought  I'd  tell  my  daughter  to  go 
along  after  her  and  not  let  her  do  herself  any  harm.  My 
daughter  was  in  another  part  of  the  house,  and  while  I 
stepped  back  to  speak  to  her  the  woman  slipped  out  the 
front  door  and  got  away  so  quickly  she  had  disappeared 
from  sight  by  the  time  we  ran  out  and  looked  for  her 
on  the  street.  I  had  an  idea  she  might  have  left  a  letter 
in  her  room  and  I  went  up  to  see,  but  I  couldn't  find 
anything  the  least  suspicious,  and  then  my  daughter 
and  I  both  hurried  down  to  the  falls.  It  was  a  bright 
night  with  a  full  moon  shining,  but  we  didn't  get  track 
of  the  woman  and  came  home  feeling  a  good  deal 
worried.  But  our  fears  were  wasted,  for  about  ten 
o'clock  in  she  walked. 

"She'd  been  crying  some  more;  still,  she  didn't  seem 
as  down-hearted  as  she  had  earlier,  and  instead  of  going 
to  her  room  she  sat  down  in  the  parlor  and  appeared  to 
want  to  talk.  Finally  she  told  us  her  troubles.  Seven- 
teen years  before  she  had  married,  and  she  and  her 
husband  had  visited  Niagara  and  they  had  seen  the 
falls  by  moonlight.  Her  husband  didn't  live  but  a  short 
time,  and  since  his  death  she'd  always  been  thinking 
she'd  go  to  Niagara  again,  and  at  last  she'd  come  back 
on  the  seventeenth  anniversary  of  their  wedding.  There 
was  to  be  a  moon  that  evening,  and  so  she  kept  to  her 
room  during  the  day  and  waited  for  it  that  she  might 
repeat  the  old  experience  as  nearly  as  possible;  and  she 


44       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

said,  while  it  was  sad,  she  found  it  very  comforting." 

My  acquaintance  turned  away  now  from  the  railing 
beside  the  giant  leap  of  the  waters,  and  prepared  to 
return  to  the  town. 

"Yes,"  he  remarked  in  parting,  "there  are  a  good 
many  strange  stories  of  one  sort  and  another  connected 
with  Niagara.  It  draws  all  kinds  of  people  to  it — 
people  that  are  happy  and  people  that  are  unhappy; 
and  it  plays  about  as  important  a  part  in  human  life 
as  any  phenomenon  of  nature  you  can  find  the  world 
over. " 

I  have  dwelt  on  what  this  acquaintance  said  to  me 
because  the  suicide  of  the  old  man  so  shortly  preceding 
my  arrival  imparted  to  the  falls  a  peculiar  sentiment 
which  did  not  wear  off  during  my  stay.  What  an  un- 
feeling, all-powerful  engine  of  destruction!  Its  might 
makes  humanity  seem  infinitesimally  small  and  weak. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  all  its  immensity  and  beauty  and  fear- 
someness,  Niagara  is  to  most  at  first  sight  disappointing. 
We  have  from  childhood  heard  so  much  of  it  that  we 
expect — we  know  not  what,  but  at  any  rate,  something 
different.  This  Is  not  the  fault  of  the  cataract.  The 
trouble  is  with  our  own  iijipossible  preconceptions. 
"Would  I  had  never  heard  of  Niagara,"  says  Haw- 
thorne, "until  I  beheld  it.  Blessed  were  the  wanderers 
of  old  who  heard  its  deep  sounding  through  the  woods 
as  a  summons  to  its  unknown  wonder,  and  approached 
its  awful  brink  in  all  the  freshness  of  native  feeling." 

One  cannot  but  envy  Father  Hennepin,  who  was  the 


Tragic  Niagara  45 

first  of  the  early  explorers  to  see  Niagara,  and  through 
whom  its  fame  was  soon  widely  disseminated  in  every 
civilized  country.  That  was  in  1678.  Speaking  of  the 
river  above  the  falls,  the  French  priest  says,  "It  is  so 
rapid  that  it  violently  hurries  down  the  wild  beasts 
while  endeavoring  to  pass  it  to  feed  on  the  other  side, 
they  not  being  able  to  withstand  the  force  of  its  cur- 
rent;" and  no  wonder,  for  it  makes  a  descent  of  fifty- 
five  feet  in  a  half  mile.  The  cataract  itself  he  describes 
as  "a  vast  and  prodigious  cadence  of  water  which  falls 
down  after  a  surprising  and  astonishing  manner, 
insomuch  that  the  universe  does  not  afford  its  parallel;" 
and  in  another  sentence  he  declares,  "The  waters  which 
fall  from  this  horrible  precipice  do  foam  and  boyl  after 
the  most  hideous  manner  imaginable,  making  an  out- 
rageous noise,  more  terrible  than  that  of  thunder." 

So  impressed  was  Father  Hennepin  that  he  estimated 
the  "horrible  precipice"  to  be  600  feet  high.  In  reality 
it  is  160  feet.  Yet  that  is  sufficient,  so  enormous  is  the 
volume  of  water,  to  represent  a  force  equaling  every 
twenty-four  hours  the  world's  daily  output  of  coal. 
The  energy  of  the  combined  water-wheels  of  the  United 
States  at  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  century  was 
not  much  above  one  million  horse-power,  while  Niagara 
can  furnish  five  or  six  times  that  amount.  A  trifling 
portion  of  this  power  has  been  utilized  ever  since  17253 
but  not  until  recent  years  has  there  been  a  serious 
attempt  to  actually  "harness"  Niagara.  At  present 
about  one-tenth  of  the  river  water  is  diverted  and  passes 


46       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

through  the  great  turbine  wheels,  and  the  resultant 
energy  is  transmitted  to  towns  and  manufactories  for 
scores  of  miles  around.  Electrical  power  from  here  has 
long  been  utilized  by  BuflFalo,  twenty-six  miles  away, 
for  running  that  city's  entire  trolley  system. 

The  falls  are  twenty-two  miles  from  Lake  Erie,  and 
fourteen  miles  from  Lake  Ontario,  measured  by  the 
course  of  the  river.  Not  quite  half  the  entire  descent 
of  the  river  is  found  in  the  perpendicular  drop  at  the 
falls.  Scientists  affirm  that  the  cataract  began  seven 
miles  below  its  present  location  and  that  the  water  has 
been  about  thirty-five  thousand  years  wearing  back  to 
where  the  falls  are  now.  The  river  is  divided  at  the 
cataract  by  Goat  Island,  on  one  side  of  which  are  the 
American  Falls  with  a  width  of  two  hundred  feet,  and 
on  the  other  side  the  Canadian  or  Horseshoe  Falls,  six 
hundred  feet  wide. 

Over  one  million  people  visit  Niagara  annually. 
They  wander  everywhere,  but  they  congregate  most 
thickly  on  Goat  Island.  During  much  of  the  year  you 
find  the  roads  and  pathways  of  the  pleasantly  wooded 
isle  thronged  every  day  with  sightseers,  on  foot,  and  in 
carriages  and  automobiles.  One  of  the  little  islets  that 
the  drivers  point  out  as  they  cross  the  massive  stone 
bridge  to  Goat  Island  is  Avery's  Rock,  a  short  distance 
down  the  stream.  On  it  an  unfortunate  man  found 
foothold  for  eighteen  hours  before  being  swept  over  the 
falls  by  the  impact  of  a  boat  let  out  with  ropes  in  an 
attempt  to  save  him. 


Where  La  Salle  launched  the  '"Griffon"' 


Tragic  Niagara  47 

In  places  on  Goat  Island  you  can  go  to  the  very  brink 
of  the  falls  and  gaze  down  into  the  mists  of  the  abyss 
with  their  shreds  of  rainbow  as  brilliant  in  hue  as  ever 
were  painted  on  a  retreating  shower.  The  up-river  view 
has  its  share  of  charm,  too;  but  you  need  to  get  some- 
what back  from  the  cataract  to  fully  appreciate  the 
impressiveness  of  that  always  rushing  flood  of  pure 
green  water  roaring  down  the  terraced  rocks,  with 
swiftly  smooth  intervals  between  the  ledges. 

The  most  superlative  thrill  possible  to  the  visitor  is 
furnished  by  the  Cave  of  the  Winds.  At  the  edge  of  the 
falls,  separated  from  the  American  side  of  Goat  Island 
by  a  narrow  torrent  is  little  Luna  Island,  so  named 
from  the  rainbows  that  are  seen  there  when  the  moon 
is  full,  and  back  of  the  avalanche  of  water  between  the 
two  isles  the  rock  is  sufficiently  worn  away  to  aff"ord  a 
foot  passage.  Before  leaving  the  Goat  Island  cliff"top, 
intending  pilgrims  to  the  cave  array  themselves  in 
yellow  oilcloth  and  put  clumsy  cloth  moccasins  on  their 
feet.  They  look  like  freaks  after  the  transformation, 
especially  the  women.  The  precipice  is  descended  by  a 
steep  circular  stairway  in  a  wooden  tower,  and  then 
there  are  paths  that  conduct  the  adventurers  to  a  series 
of  slender  wooden  bridges  which  enable  them  to  pass 
from  rock  to  rock  in  front  of  the  foaming  fall  to  Luna 
Island.  After  that  they  go  through  the  driving  mist 
back  of  the  fall  and  emerge  on  a  path  amid  the  stones 
that  form  a  steep  slope  buttressing  the  perpendicular 
cliff.     Finally,  when  they  have  climbed  the  winding 


48        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

stairs,  they  photograph  each  other,  resume  civilized 
apparel,  and  very  likely  go  off  to  carve  their  initials 
on  the  island  trees. 

While  the  scenery  around  Niagara  is  flat  and  com- 
monplace, and  the  falls  entirely  lack  the  rugged  and 
mountainous  background  that  seems  fitting,  there  is,  to 
compensate,  the  gorge  that  the  cataract  has  hewn 
through  the  solid  rock,  seven  miles  long  and  gradually 
deepening  until  toward  its  lower  end  its  walls  measure 
three  hundred  feet.  The  most  striking  portion  .of  the 
gorge  is  its  second  mile,  where  the  chasm  contracts  to  a 
width  of  four  hundred  feet.  The  river  here  has  a  depth 
estimated  at  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  and  rushes 
through  the  narrow  channel  at  the  rate  of  forty  miles 
an  hour  in  a  wild  chaos  of  struggling,  foaming  waves 
and  riotous  spray.  This  lashing  turmoil  is  known  as 
the  "Whirlpool  Rapids,"  and  so  swift  and  confined  is 
the  immense  volume  of  water  that  the  surface  assumes 
a  convex  form,  and  is  distinctly  higher  in  the  middle 
than  at  the  edges. 

Ever  since  early  in  the  last  century  Niagara  has  been 
recognized  as  an  ideal  place  for  gaining  publicity  by 
feats  of  daring,  and  the  chasm  at  the  Whirlpool  Rapids 
has  been  the  chief  scene  of  them.  A  favorite  method  of 
those  individuals  who  choose  this  spot  to  acquaint  the 
world  with  their  intrepidity,  has  been  to  perform  on  a 
tight  rope  stretched  over  the  gorge.  Not  only  have 
such  ropes  been  crossed  again  and  again,  but  the 
athletes  have  walked  with  baskets  on  their  feet,  gone 


Tragic  Niagara  49 

through  various  antics,  and  even  cooked  meals  while 
poised  on  a  single  slender  strand  above  that  roaring, 
hungry  torrent  far  down  below.  As  if  this  was  not 
sufficiently  nerve-racking  to  the  spectators,  the  famous 
Blondin  carried  a  man  across  on  his  back. 

What  has  proved  to  be  a  still  more  dangerous  form  of 
amusement  has  come  into  vogue  latterly.  The  fashion 
was  set  by  a  little  steamer,  the  "Maid  of  the  Mist," 
which  had  been  built  to  cruise  about  the  comparatively 
quiet  water  immediately  below  the  falls.  This  steamer 
had  become  badly  involved  by  debts,  and  seizure  by 
the  United  States  officials  was  imminent.  To  escape 
confiscation  it  must  reach  some  Canadian  lake  port, 
which  could  only  be  done  by  going  through  the  Whirl- 
pool Rapids.  Three  men  were  found  willing  to  under- 
take this  hazard,  and  on  a  June  afternoon  in  1861,  to  the 
surprise  of  everyone  except  the  few  who  knew  of  the 
plan,  the  boat  headed  down  the  river  under  full  steam. 
She  encountered  the  savage  buffeting  of  the  waves 
bravely,  and  though  she  lost  her  smoke  stack,  passed 
through  safely. 

In  emulation  of  this  escapade  all  sorts  of  trips  have 
been  made  through  the  rapids,  some  by  swimmers, 
some  in  boats,  some  in  barrels;  and  in  spite  of  a  number 
of  fatalities,  new  adventurers  have  continued  to  make 
the  attempt.  While  I  was  at  Niagara  the  passage  made 
by  a  Chicago  bookkeeper  known  as  "Bowser,"  was 
still  being  talked  about.  In  the  summer  of  1900  he 
came  to  the  falls  with  a  curious  boat  built  on  a  plan  of 


50       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

his  own.  He  confided  to  certain  persons  in  the  city  that 
he  had  for  years  been  in  the  habit  of  spending  his  two 
weeks'  vacation  at  Niagara.  "Some  folks  have  one 
hobby  and  some  another,"  he  said.  "Mine  is  the 
Whirlpool  Rapids.  I've  studied  them  for  a  long  time 
and  I  think  I  understand  them.  There's  no  money  up, 
and  I'm  not  seeking  notoriety.  I'm  going  through 
simply  for  my  personal  satisfaction." 

His  boat  was  twenty-one  feet  long,  had  air  com- 
partments at  the  ends  and  sides,  and  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  cockpit,  was  decked  over;  but  its  special 
feature  was  an  iron  keel  of  over  half  a  ton  in  weight 
suspended  on  a  rod  six  feet  beneath  the  bottom.  This 
keel  served  its  purpose,  and  when  Bowser  made  his 
dash  through  the  rapids,  the  craft  never  lost  its  balance. 
It  would  ride  over  one  wave  and  dive  through  the  next, 
so  that  the  man  and  boat  were  alternately  in  sight  and 
buried  in  the  frothing  leaps  of  the  mad  current.  The 
race  lasted  only  a  few  minutes,  and  then  Bowser  came 
out  in  the  whirlpool  and  began  to  twist  and  circle  on 
its  dark  labyrinthine  waters.  He  had  a  pair  of  oars 
fastened  to  the  boat  when  he  started,  but  the  breakers 
in  the  rapids  had  torn  them  off,  and  he  drifted  about 
the  whirlpool  for  two  hours  helpless.  Crowds  looked 
on  from  the  high  banks  of  the  canyon,  but  they  could 
do  nothing;  and  Bowser  was  in  constant  terror  lest  the 
immense  logs  and  other  driftwood  restlessly  turning  in 
those  turbulent  deeps  should  batter  and  wreck  his  frail 
craft.     However,  he  at  length  floated  near  enough  to 


Looking  dozvn  on  the  Canadian  Falls  from  Goat  Island 


Tragic  Niagara  51 

shore  so  that  his  boat  was  caught  and  he  was  rescued. 
He  had  had  a  plan  half  formed  to  go  through  the  rapids 
again  and  take  a  companion,  but  now  he  decisively 
said  that  one  experience  of  that  sort  would  last  him  a 
lifetime. 

In  1902  a  woman  started  down  the  rapids  in  a  barrel, 
but  she  was  caught  In  the  whirlpool  just  as  Bowser  had 
been  and  circled  there  for  six  hours.  She  died  shortly 
after  being  rescued.  Yet  a  Mrs.  Taylor  accomplished 
the  death-defying  feat  of  going  over  the  Horseshoe 
Falls  In  a  barrel  a  year  previous,  and  she  lived  to  tell  the 
tale.  Of  course,  the  barrels  were  specially  constructed 
with  plenty  of  padding  and  were  heavily  weighted  to 
keep  a  certain  side  uppermost. 

This  pitting  oneself  against  the  forces  of  nature 
seems  to  have  a  peculiar  fascination,  and  in  1910  a 
Captain  Larson  braved  the  rapids  In  a  motor  boat. 
It  was  the  general  opinion  that  he  would  perish.  For 
the  benefit  of  the  pleasure  venders  on  the  shores,  who 
wanted  he  should  draw  as  great  a  crowd  as  possible, 
the  trip  was  made  on  a  Sunday.  He  started  at  about 
five  in  the  afternoon  in  the  comparatively  quiet  water 
above  the  cantilever  bridge.  Soon  he  was  in  the  swifter 
current  amid  the  wildly  tossing  waves.  Most  of  the 
time  he  was  lost  to  sight,  yet  at  one  point  was  shot 
twenty  feet  out  of  the  water.  In  three  minutes  he  had 
reached  the  whirlpool,  where  he  kept  to  the  outer  edge 
and  went  on.  Now,  however,  the  engine  stopped  work- 
ing, and  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  waters,  which  were 


52       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

hardly  less  violent  than  those  above.  The  little  craft 
swung  around  stern  first,  and  then  turned  completely 
over.  Larson  came  up  badly  battered,  and  was  swept 
on,  the  plaything  of  the  mighty  river.  Once  the  boat 
stuck  fast  between  two  boulders,  and  Larson  stayed 
there  five  minutes  working  desperately  to  free  it.  Again 
he  went  careening  on  his  unguided  course.  The  Lewis- 
ton  bridge  was  in  sight  when  he  was  caught  in  a  shore 
eddy  and  grounded.  Several  men  ran  to  his  assistance. 
He  wished  to  continue  his  voyage  to  the  very  end  now 
that  the  worst  was  over,  but  they  persuaded  him  to 
land. 

The  nearest  approach  to  such  a  trip  that  is  within 
the  reach  of  the  ordinary  visitor  to  Niagara,  is  a  voyage 
on  the  "Maid  of  the  Mist,"  a  successor  of  the  maid 
that  ran  away.  The  waters  on  which  you  cruise  are 
far  gentler  than  those  of  the  Whirlpool  Rapids,  yet 
they  are  still  so  rude  you  wonder  that  little  duckling  of 
a  steamer  should  have  the  temerity  to  venture  on  their 
foam-streaked  turmoil.  Hour  after  hour,  the  season 
through,  it  makes  its  trips,  dashing  into  the  very  heart 
of  the  falls.  The  passengers  are  clad  from  head  to  foot 
with  heavy  rubber  garments  furnished  on  board,  else 
they  would  be  drenched  by  the  flying  spray  of  the  cata- 
ract. Again  and  again  the  tiny  vessel  charges  into  the 
seething  froth  churned  up  by  the  flood  coming  over 
those  vast  perpendicular  precipices.  It  careens  and 
tosses  about  in  a  manner  very  suggestive  of  danger, 
but  this  seems  a  part  of  the  spectacle,  and  furnishes  a 


Tragic  Niagara  53 

spice  that  is  welcome  rather  than  otherwise.  As  for  the 
uplook  from  the  deck  at  that  lofty  wall  of  water,  green 
on  the  verge,  then  opaline  and  shading  delicately  into 
snowy  white  and  vapory  void,  nothing  excels  it  in  the 
whole  round  of  Niagara  sightseeing.  Visitors,  after 
this  trip,  even  if  their  first  views  have  disappointed 
them,  can  hardly  fail  to  bring  away  a  satisfying  idea  of 
Niagara's  immensity  and  grandeur,  and  the  assurance 
that  they  have  seen  one  of  the  marvels  of  the  world. 

Note. — Few  regions  in  America  contain  more  attractions  within 
as  narrow  a  compass,  and  all  so  easily  accessible,  as  does  the  vicinity 
of  Niagara.  It  is  possible  to  see  the  chief  points  of  interest  in  a  day, 
but  several  days  are  preferable.  The  best  months  for  visiting  the 
Falls  are  May  and  June  and  September  and  October.  The  weather 
is  then  reasonably  comfortable,  and  the  crowds  of  midsummer  are 
avoided.  If  possible  make  a  visit  also  to  see  the  Falls  in  all  the  glory 
of  their  winter  dress.  There  are  many  points  of  vantage  from  which 
the  Falls  can  be  viewed,  and  each  of  these  points  has  its  own  peculiar 
charm.  See  them  from  both  shores,  from  the  islands,  and  from  the 
little  steamer,  and  descend  the  Goat  Island  cliffs  and  look  at  them 
from  the  foot  of  the  declivity  with  a  wild  foreground  of  rocks,  bushes, 
and  gnarled  trees.  For  a  thrill  visit  the  Cave  of  the  Winds.  Walking 
is  for  most  people  the  best  method  of  satisfactorily  seeing  the  sights 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  Falls.  The  miles  of  rapids  and  the 
gorge  below  can  be  viewed  by  taking  the  "belt  line"  of  electric  cars 
which  make  a  circuit,  going  one  way  on  the  Canadian  bluff,  and  the 
other  in  the  chasm.    Stops  are  made  at  all  places  of  special  interest. 

Several  battlegrounds  in  the  region  can  easily  be  visited.  One  of 
these  is  in  the  chasm  itself  at  what  is  known  as  the  Devil's  Hole, 
where  an  Indian  massacre  occurred  in  1763.  But  the  most  important 
battlefield  is  that  of  Lunday's  Lane  not  far  back  from  the  Falls  on 
the  Canadian  side. 


54        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Down  where  the  river  joins  the  lake  is  old  Fort  Niagara,  histor- 
cially  famous,  and  quaintly  beautiful  with  its  massive  walls,  its 
blockhouses,  and  fine  outlook  on  the  water. 

About  eight  miles  northeast  of  the  Falls  is  the  reservation  of  the 
Tuscarora  Indians,  and  a  leisurely  sojourner  in  the  region  will  do 
well  to  visit  it. 

One  of  the  most  notable  historic  spots  on  the  river  is  a  few 
miles  above  the  Falls  just  outside  the  village  of  La  Salle.  Here,  in 
the  winter  of  1678-9,  near  the  mouth  of  Cayuga  Creek,  the  explorer 
whose  name  the  village  bears  built  the  Griffon,  the  first  sailing  vessel 
that  ever  navigated  the  lakes. 

Still  farther  up  the  river  is  Tonawanda,  the  greatest  lumber  dis- 
tributing town  in  the  world.  The  lumber  piles  line  the  shore  for 
miles,  and  the  vessels  that  bring  the  lumber  are  constantly  arriving 
from  the  upper  lakes  all  through  the  navigation  season.  In  1890 
there  was  unloaded  at  these  wharves  over  seven  hundred  million 
feet,  but  the  lake  region  is  no  longer  the  source  of  timber  supply  it 
was  formerly,  and  the  amount  handled  at  Tonawanda  had  long  been 
dwindling. 


IV 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  SHORE 

PENNSYLVANIA'S  coast  line  is  limited  to  a  strip 
on  Lake  Erie  about  fifty  miles  long;  and  the  most 
populous  town  in  the  strip  is  the  city  with  the 
same  name  as  the  lake.  Erie  is  a  thriving  railroad  and 
industrial  center,  but  what  drew  me  to  it  more  particu- 
larly was  its  importance  as  a  fishing  port.  Of  all  the 
group  of  Great  Lakes,  Erie  ranks  first  as  a  fish  producer, 
and  vast  quantities  of  the  fish  that  are  caught  are 
brought  in  to  the  city  of  Erie  to  be  dressed  and  packed 
and  sent  away  to  other  markets.  I  fancied  therefore 
that  the  wharves  about  the  fish  houses  would  present  a 
scene  of  noisy,  busy  confusion.  But  I  found  neither 
crowd  nor  bustle,  nor  even  an  attractive  picturesque- 
ness.  The  fish  houses  were  clean  and  sweet,  though 
there  was  often  much  in  their  vicinity  that  was  dubious 
to  both  sight  and  smell.  Comparatively  few  men, 
laboring  with  orderly  dispatch,  seemed  to  meet  all  the 
requirements  for  handling  the  fish.  Perhaps  the  feature 
of  the  wharves  that  most  appealed  to  the  eye  was  the 
nets  drying  on  great  reels.  The  boats  were  rather 
prosaic  small  tugs  or  gasoline  launches.  I  stopped  to 
watch  one  of  the  boats  unload  the  fish  that  lay  in  com- 
partments in  the  bottom.    As  the  men  tossed  them  up 


56        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

on  the  wharf  they  were  sorted  into  boxes  according  to 
kind  and  trundled  away  into  the  fish  houses;  and  how 
beautiful  they  were — those  jewels  of  the  water  with 
their  glistening  scales! 

A  man  in  rubber  boots  had  seated  himself  on  a 
wheelbarrow  near  by,  and  was  smoking  his  pipe  and 
intermittently  spitting.  I  spoke  to  him  and  learned  that 
he  was  an  old  hand  at  the  fish  business.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "it  so  happens  that  a  man  has  got  to  work  for  the 
pleasure  of  having  something  to  eat  and  keep  himself 
from  starving  to  death,  and  I  took  up  fishing.  This  is  a 
good  place  to  get  employment  in  that  line.  There's 
lots  of  different  fish  companies  here,  and  I've  counted 
thirty  fish  tugs  all  in  a  row  at  the  same  time  along  our 
wharves,  and  that  wa'n't  half  of  'em. 

"The  boats  leave  here  at  five  or  six  in  the  morning, 
and  they're  generally  back  by  noon.  You  see  that  pen- 
insula over  across  the  harbor.  Wall,  the  fishing  grounds 
begin  a  few  miles  beyond  that,  but  twenty-five  miles 
ain't  too  fur  to  go  to  set  nets.  Most  of  the  boats  are 
owned  by  the  fish  companies,  and  the  help  are  paid  good 
wages,  but  the  men  who  make  the  most  are  on  boats  of 
their  own.  I've  known  a  crew  of  four  or  five  to  ketch 
three  ton  in  one  day.  They  make  a  nice  thing  out  of  it, 
and  during  a  season  there's  a  profit  for  each  man  of  from 
a  thousand  to  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  In  the  winter 
the  fishermen  work  in  shops  or  filling  ice  houses. 

"Most  of  them  are  Americans,  and  fishing  ain't  no 
soft  job  either.    There's  a  pile  of  work  in  this  business, 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  57 

and  considerable  danger.  Sometimes  the  weather  is  so 
rough  the  boats  won't  go  out,  and  if  the  bad  weather 
continues  for  several  days,  a  good  many  of  the  fish  that 
had  got  caught  in  the  nets  are  no  good,  and  maybe  the 
nets  are  all  torn  to  the  dickens,  too.  There's  been  tugs 
sunk  and  the  captain  and  all  the  crew  lost. 

"  I  came  near  getting  drownded  myself  out  here  in  the 
bay  last  summer.  I  and  another  feller  was  in  a  rowboat 
over  near  the  peninsula  fishing.  By  and  by  we  noticed 
the  clouds  a-gathering,  and  it  began  to  get  dark  all  of  a 
sudden.  'There's  a  big  storm  comin,"  I  says.  'We'd 
better  pull  to  shore.' 

"Wall,  sir,  you  have  no  idea  how  quick  that  water 
got  rough.  It  wa'n't  five  minutes  before  the  waves 
were  rolling  six  feet  high,  and  no  sooner  did  we  strike 
the  land  than  the  boat  filled  with  water.  But  we  got 
out  safe,  and  hauled  the  boat  up  on  the  shore.  Quite  a 
few  men  lost  their  lives  in  that  storm. " 

To  the  east  of  the  city  for  scores  of  miles  the  most 
notable  crop  on  the  farmlands  is  grapes.  I  had  seen 
the  almost  unending  vineyards  from  the  car  window, 
and  was  eager  to  make  a  more  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  grape  region.  A  half  hour's  trolley  ride  took 
me  into  the  fertile  prosperous  farming  country,  mostly 
level,  but  rising  three  or  four  miles  back  from  the  lake 
into  a  long  gullied  ridge.  The  ridge  was  by  no  means 
lofty,  yet,  to  quote  one  of  the  natives,  "The  streams  to 
the  south  of  it  flow  to  the  Ohio,  and  those  to  the  north 


58        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

to  the  lake,  and  the  waters  divided  by  that  ridge  have 
to  go  around  the  world  before  they  meet  again." 

I  left  the  electric  road  and  went  for  a  long  walk,  much 
of  the  time  with  vineyards  on  either  side  of  the  high- 
way. The  grapevines  were  trained  to  grow  on  a  double 
line  of  wires  fastened  to  posts,  and  the  rows  of  posts 
were  far  enough  apart  to  admit  air  and  sunshine  freely 
and  to  allow  ploughing  and  cultivating.  When  I  had 
rambled  so  far  on  the  dusty  roads  that  I  began  to  tire  of 
walking  I  stopped  to  talk  with  a  stoop-shouldered  old 
man  who  was  on  a  piazza  reading  a  newspaper. 

"I  was  one  of  the  first  grape-farmers  in  this  vicinity," 
said  he,  "but  in  early  life  my  home  was  in  western 
Massachusetts.  I  taught  school  there  for  ten  years, 
and  then  I  had  to  quit  on  account  of  havin'  the  dis- 
pepsy.  So  I  took  me  a  wife  and  came  out  here  to  visit 
my  brother  who  was  farmin'  it  on  the  shore  of  Lake 
Erie.  I  couldn't  work,  and  I  didn't  seem  to  be  gettin' 
a  bit  better,  though  this  is  as  healthy  a  country  as  there 
is  anywhere.  By  and  by  my  brother  says,  *I  know  a 
doctor  who  can  cure  you.' 

"We  went  to  see  the  doctor,  and  he  told  me  he'd  fix 
up  some  medicine.  'I'd  like  it  if  you'd  make  out  a 
prescription,'  says  I,  'so  I  can  go  to  a  druggist's  and  get 
more  after  what  you  put  up  is  gone. ' 

"  'No  need  of  that,'  he  says.  'I'll  give  you  enough 
to  cure  you.' 

"Then  I  got  anxious  about  what  he  was  goin'  to 
charge.     I  knew  that  one  of  the  other  teachers  at  the 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  59 

school  where  I  taught  had  gone  to  a  doctor — a  city- 
doctor  it  was — to  get  cured  of  the  same  complaint,  and 
the  doctor's  medicine  cost  him  twenty-five  dollars. 
Even  with  all  that  expense,  I'm  not  sure  as  he  was  cured. 
When  I  asked  the  doctor  how  much  I  owed,  he  said, 
'A  dollar  and  a  half.' 

"I  was  relieved,  I  can  tell  you;  and  the  medicine 
made  me  a  well  man. 

"I'd  been  teachin'  at  a  boardin'  school.  It  was  no 
wonder  we  had  the  dispepsy  there.  We  were  settin' 
around  at  our  work  most  of  the  time,  and  they  didn't 
keep  us  very  well.  Hot  griddle-cakes  was  served  often, 
and  quite  a  number  of  times  we'd  have  for  supper  just 
soft  raw  bread  that  we  couldn't  eat  and  digest,  and  so 
we'd  go  to  bed  hungry.  You  see  the  man  who  ran  the 
school  had  married  an  old  school-teacher  who  couldn't 
cook.  I  guess  her  cookin'  killed  him.  Anyway,  he's 
dead  and  I'm  still  alive. 

"I  thought  outdoor  work  was  better  than  indoor 
work  for  me,  and  I  bought  a  farm  here  and  went  to 
dairyin'.  That  was  durin'  the  Civil  War.  When  the 
war  broke  up,  butter  went  down  to  fifteen  or  twenty 
cents  a  pound,  and  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  raise  a 
basket  of  grapes  easier  than  I  could  a  pound  of  butter. 
I  gave  up  dairyin'  and  started  a  vineyard.  People 
around  here  at  that  time  were  raisin'  wheat,  barley,  oats 
and  that  kind  of  crops.  They  sold  to  speculators  who 
kept  the  price  down,  and  I  concluded  they  couldn't  be 
makin'  much.      Brocton,  fifty  miles  to  the  east,  was 


6o        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

the  only  grape-raisin'  town  then,  and  it  was  claimed 
they  had  the  whole  thing  down  that  way,  and  grapes 
couldn't  be  raised  to  advantage  anywhere  else  along  the 
Erie  shore.  But  my  grapes  were  as  bright  and  nice  as 
Brocton  grapes,  only  perhaps  a  leetle  mite  later,  and 
as  soon  as  people  saw  what  I'd  done  there  was  a  great 
hooraw  to  set  out  vineyards. 

"Most  of  the  time  we've  found  grapes  a  money- 
makin'  crop.  Occasionally,  though,  the  price  gets 
pretty  low,  or  the  frost  ketches  us.  I  remember  one 
fall  when  we  had  an  early  cold  snap  a  man  went  to 
my  son-in-law,  who  was  freight  agent,  and  says:  'I've 
got  seventeen  acres  of  grapes,  and  last  night  they  froze. 
They're  just  solid  balls.    What  can  I  do  with  'em?' 

"  'Well,'  says  my  son-in-law,  'I'll  tell  you  what  to 
do.  Pick  'em  at  once.  They'll  soon  drop  off  if  you 
don't.    Then  ship  'em  and  take  your  chances.' 

"The  man  filled  a  car,  and  told  my  son-in-law  he'd 
rather  accept  a  small  price  right  where  they  were  than 
risk  gettin'  still  less  by  shippin'. 

"  'Then  sell  them  to  me,'  says  my  son-in-law.  'I'll 
give  you  five  cents  a  basket.' 

"The  man  was  satisfied,  and  he  let  others  know  of 
his  bargain,  and  they  hurried  to  bring  in  their  frozen 
grapes.  By  Saturday  night  my  son-in-law  had 
twelve  car-loads,  and  everybody  thought  he  was  goin' 
to  lose  a  fortune.  Instead  of  that  he  made  three  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  he  said  he'd  rather  deal  in  frozen 
grapes  than  any  other  sort.    They're  kind  o'  soft  and 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  6l 

flat  tastin',  but  they  do  very  well  for  wine  purposes. 

"Grapes  are  not  as  easily  raised  as  perhaps  you  might 
imagine.  They  draw  so  much  from  the  land  that  it's 
necessary  to  fertilize  heavily;  and  you  have  to  spray 
'em  again  and  again  every  season.  There's  a  good 
many  insect  pests  that  need  lookin'  after — rose  bugs, 
leaf  hoppers  and  such  things.  We  have  to  hire  consider- 
able help,  and  help  is  expensive  and  requires  watchin'. 
If  you've  got  anybody  workin'  for  you  it's  your  business 
to  be  around.  You  set  a  hired  man  to  ploughin'  among 
the  grapevines  without  oversight,  and  you'll  find  him 
tearin'  up  the  roots,  jammin'  into  the  vines,  and  raisin' 
the  mischief  generally. 

"You  see  that  air  yellow  house  down  the  road.  The 
man  who  lives  there  has  a  hundred  acres  in  vineyards, 
and  he  cultivates  a  lot  more  land.  This  is  a  good  soil 
and  climate  for  all  sorts  of  fruits  and  crops,  and  you'll 
often  see  orchards  of  peach,  plum  or  cherry  trees,  and 
fields  of  buckwheat,  corn,  clover,  and  beans,  and  we 
grow  a  good  many  berries.  Any  fruit  does  well  here  if 
you  take  care  of  it.  This  ridge  that  runs  along  parallel 
with  the  lake  seems  to  give  us  a  long,  mild  autumn. 
The  heat  which  the  great  body  of  lake  water  absorbs 
during  the  summer  is  given  off  gradually,  and  the  ridge 
keeps  the  warm  air  right  here.  I've  made  up  my  mind 
there's  only  one  better  place  than  this,  and  that's  the 
beyond,  and  I'm  in  no  hurry  about  exchangin'  this  for 
that  either." 

The  afternoon  was  well  advanced  when  I  returned  to 


62        Highways  and  Bj^ways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

the  highway.  I  went  on  while  the  shadows  lengthened, 
and  the  air  grew  gray  with  the  approach  of  night.  Then 
I  stopped  at  a  wayside  home  and  engaged  lodging.  The 
house  was  an  old  one,  but  had  been  well  cared-for. 
The  barn,  however,  was  a  big,  gray  structure  that  was 
quite  decrepit.  It  was  a  relic  of  the  dairy  period  of  the 
region.  The  farm  family  consisted  of  only  a  young  man 
and  his  wife,  both  hard-working  and  intelligent.  The 
former  was  busy  about  his  evening  work,  and  I  kept  him 
company  while  he  milked  his  three  cows  where  they 
stood  In  a  row  In  the  dusky  stable.  The  milk  was 
streaming  steadily  Into  the  foaming  pail  when  a  cat 
came  in  unobserved  and  brushed  against  the  cow  behind 
him.  Instantly  the  cow  gave  a  savage  kick.  The  cat 
got  out  of  harm's  way  like  a  flash,  but  the  cow's  hoof 
caught  in  one  of  the  milker's  rear  trousers'  pockets 
and  made  a  tear  in  the  garment  a  foot  long.  He  investi- 
gated the  extent  of  the  damage,  made  a  few  pithy 
remarks  suited  to  the  occasion,  and  went  on  with  his 
milking.  Presently  he  carried  the  milk  to  the  house, 
and  after  he  had  run  It  through  a  separator  in  the  back- 
room, his  wife  set  away  the  cream,  and  he  took  the 
skim  milk  out  to  feed  a  calf  and  a  family  of  pigs. 

There  were  various  other  small  jobs  to  be  done,  in- 
cluding the  chopping  up  and  bringing  In  some  wood  for 
the  stove,  and  It  was  seven  o'clock  when  we  sat  down 
to  supper.  VVe  had  the  company  of  "Uncle  Gilbert," 
an  elderly  relative  and  former  resident  of  the  vicinity, 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  63 

who  was  visiting  them  for  a  few  days.  He  addressed 
his  nephew  and  niece  as  Harvey  and  NeUie. 

"I  hope  we  can  have  a  gas  well  another  year,"  said 
Nellie.    "  I  don't  like  the  bother  of  a  wood  or  coal  fire. " 

"And  I'm  sure  I  don't  enjoy  skirmishin'  around  after 
the  fuel,"  remarked  Harvey.  "But  to  bore  a  well 
costs  five  hundred  dollars,  and  sometimes  you  don't 
get  the  gas.  However,  there's  nine  or  ten  families 
right  on  this  road  within  a  mile  who  have  gas  wells  that 
light  and  heat  their  houses  the  year  round.  Each  family 
has  its  own  well.  You  might  think  one  good  well  would 
supply  several  homes  that  were  near  together,  but  the 
owner  is  too  afraid  it  will  play  out  quicker  if  he  sells  to 
the  neighbors.  We  have  to  go  down  nearly  a  thousand 
feet  to  strike  the  layer  that  contains  gas.  The  best 
supply  is  found  close  along  the  lake.  Six  miles  south 
of  here  a  gas  well  is  a  rarity. " 

"One  advantage  of  gas,"  said  Nellie,  "is  that  you 
don't  need  to  have  any  woodpile  litter  in  the  yard.  All 
you  see  above  ground  is  a  cylinder  tank  about  a  foot 
through  and  perhaps  ten  feet  long.  I  was  used  to  gas  at 
my  old  home,  and  I  had  great  times  when  I  began 
housekeeping  here.  I'd  forget  my  lire,  and  the  first 
thing  I  knew  it  would  be  out.  So  I'd  be  always  bringing 
in  kindling  wood  to  start  it.  When  you  have  gas  jets 
in  your  stove  the  fire  takes  care  of  itself.  Besides,  as 
things  are  now  we're  obliged  to  use  lamps  and  it's  a 
nuisance  to  clean  and  fill  them.  Oh,  there's  lots  of 
work  and  expense  if  you  are  without  natural  gas." 


64        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Uncle  Gilbert  finished  supper  before  the  rest  of  us, 
and  he  got  up,  took  oflF  his  coat  to  be  comfortable,  lit  a 
cigar,  and  sat  down  with  his  chair  tilted  back  against 
the  wall.  He  was  a  very  deliberate  man  who  weighed 
his  words  well  before  he  spoke,  and  announced  his 
opinions  with  an  air  of  finality.  "These  are  very  good 
cigars  of  yours,  Harvey,"  said  he,  "and  I  shall  enjoy 
them  as  long  as  they  last." 

"So  you've  given  all  your  cigars  to  Uncle  Gilbert, 
have  you.?"  asked  Nellie. 

"Yes,"  responded  Harvey,  "I  sha'n't  use  any  more." 

"Why,  what  has  happened.?"  I  inquired. 

"Well,"  said  Harvey,  "I've  quit  smokin'.  I  was 
converted  one  night  lately  at  a  tent-meetin'  near  here. 
It's  been  my  habit  to  carry  cigars  with  me,  and  I  had 
one  in  my  pocket  then.  As  I  was  comin'  out  the 
tent  I  wanted  it,  but  I  said  to  myself:  'No,  if  I'm 
goin'  to  leave  off  some  bad  habits  I  may  as  well  leave 
off  all.  If  God  has  the  power  to  forgive  sins  he  has 
the  power  to  keep  me  from  sinning.  He  can  take 
the  tobacco  habit  from  me  if  he  wants  to.' 

"That's  right,  Harvey,"  observed  Uncle  Gilbert, 
"and  if  there's  anything  else  I  can  use  that  you  con- 
clude you  don't  believe  in,  just  pass  along  to  me  what- 
ever you  happen  to  have  on  hand." 

"I  ain't  any  fault  to  find  with  the  man  who  can 
smoke  or  take  a  chew  of  tobacco  and  be  decent  about 
it,"  Harvey  continued;  "and  you  can't  find  it  in  the 
lips  of  the  Bible  where  it  says  it's  wicked  to  smoke." 


In  a  vineyard 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  65 

"No,"  said  Uncle  Gilbert,  "and  I've  never  made  a 
hog  of  myself  usin'  it.  When  I  am  around  like  I  am  now 
doin'  nothin',  I  smoke  more  in  a  day  than  I  do  at  home 
in  a  week.  The  trouble  with  you,  Harvey,  was  that 
you  went  to  extremes." 

"That's  just  what  I  done,"  assented  the  young  man 
earnestly.  "The  Bible  says,  'Be  diligent  in  all  things,' 
and  that's  what  I  was  with  tobacco.  A  few  years  ago 
one  cigar  a  day  would  do  me.  Then  I  got  to  smokin' 
two,  then  three.  The  habit  kep'  growin'  on  me,  and 
lately  I've  bought  a  box  at  a  time.  I'd  smoke  five  or 
six  a  day  and  chew  up  a  couple  of  more.  The  first  thing 
in  the  mornin',  as  soon  as  I  got  my  pants  on,  I'd  put  a 
cigar  in  my  mouth;  but  after  I'd  confessed  I  was  a 
sinner  at  the  tent-meetin'  it  was  the  easiest  thing  for 
me  to  give  up  tobacco  of  anything  I  ever  done.  I  don't 
care  for  it  any  more.  One  advantage  of  the  change  is 
that  my  mouth  don't  have  that  dark  brown  taste  it 
used  to  have,  when  I  get  up  in  the  mornin'.  Besides, 
I'm  savin'  the  price  of  a  good  suit  of  clothes  every  year. 
But  if  I  was  to  take  a  cigar  again,  I'd  want  the  next  one 
pretty  quick,  and  I'd  soon  be  worse  than  ever." 

"You've  hit  it  exactly,  Harvey,"  said  Uncle  Gilbert. 
"Don't  you  be  tempted  to  smoke  again.  I'll  take  care 
that  the  cigars  you  gave  me  ain't  wasted." 

I  asked  about  the  tent-meetings  and  learned  that 
they  had  been  held  in  a  grove  where  formerly  it  had 
been  the  custom  to  have  camp-meetings.  "In  the  old 
days,"  said  Uncle  Gilbert,  "a  man  would  bring  his 


66       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

family  to  camp-meetin'  and  stay  several  days.  Some 
drove  from  a  long  distance." 

The  recent  tent-meetings  had  lasted  six  weeks.  An 
evangelist  had  charge  of  them,  and  the  collections  taken 
at  the  meetings  remunerated  him.  He  was  very  fervent 
and  roused  his  audiences  to  a  considerable  degree  of 
excitement.  "Whenever  he  made  a  good  argument," 
said  Harvey,  "there  were  people  who  would  holler 
'Amen!'  and  if  someone  else  was  speakin'  he'd  help 
emphasize.  'Glory  to  God,'  was  his  strong  hold 
His  preachin'  certainly  was  powerful,  and  yet  five  years 
ago  he  couldn't  read." 

"He  didn't  suit  me  very  well  when  you  took  me  over 
there  the  other  night,"  remarked  Uncle  Gilbert. 
"Every  time  I  got  a  chance  to  look  around  a  bushel 
basket  hat  a  lady  in  front  of  me  wore  I  could  see  that  the 
preacher  had  an  awful  grin.  I  hain't  sayin'  anything 
against  his  talk,  but  I  wouldn't  want  a  face  like  that. 
He  had  a  way  of  drawin'  his  mouth  so  you'd  see  his 
teeth  on  both  sides.  Another  thing — every  once  in  a 
while  he  curled  his  head  down,  humped  his  back  up 
and  hopped  about  four  feet  into  the  air.  I  never  saw 
such  performing  before  in  my  life.  The  pulpit  didn't 
seem  the  place  for  that  sort  of  antics.  It  wasn't 
edifyin'." 

"But  his  face  or  his  manners  ain't  the  main  thing," 
retorted  Harvey.  "We  needed  to  be  stirred  up  and  he 
done  it.  People  weren't  takin'  any  live  interest  in  the 
church.  They'd  come  out  to  the  preachin' service  and  the 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  d'j 

Sunday-school,  but  the  prayer-meetin's  had  been 
runnin'  down  for  years  until  they'd  been  given  up.  Now 
they've  been  revived,  and  at  the  United  Brethren 
Church  prayer-meetin'  last  week  seventy  were  present. 
The  evangelist  made  over  a  hundred  converts,  nearly  all 
of  'em  young  people  between  the  ages  of  fifteen  and 
thirty.  A  good  many  of  'em  had  been  brought  up  in 
Christian  homes,  but  the  teachings  went  in  at  one  ear 
and  out  at  the  other.  We  knew  we  was  sinners  and  ex- 
pected we'd  got  to  repent  and  believe  some  time,  yet 
we  was  in  no  hurry.  I  haven't  decided  what  church  to 
join.  The  evangelist  was  preachin'  Christ  and  not 
urgin'  any  particular  sect  on  us,  and  each  person  must 
select  his  church  for  himself." 

"Harvey,"  said  Uncle  Gilbert,  letting  his  chair  come 
down  to  a  level  and  leaning  forward  with  his  cigar  in 
his  hand,  "when  you  find  a  church  that  you  can  feel 
is  your  home  join  that.  Don't  be  dragged  anywhere 
else.  I  don't  care  what  denomination  it  is  if  only  the 
gospel  truth  is  preached  there." 

"My  father  got  stirred  up  at  a  revival  fifteen  years 
ago,"  said  Harvey,  "but  he  has  his  own  idee  about 
religion,  and  he  don't  belong  to  nothin'.  Then,  here's 
my  wife — her  people  are  Baptists.  Now  you  wouldn't 
think  there'd  be  but  one  right  way  to  be  baptized,  would 
you?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  responded  Uncle  Gilbert. 
"There's  three  kinds  of  baptism  spoken  of  in  the  Bible." 


68        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"I  haven't  run  across  where  it  says  anything  about 
sprinklin'  yet,"  remarked  Harvey. 

"If  I  had  my  glasses  I'd  find  the  place  for  you," 
said  his  uncle.  "But  never  mind,  let  each  person  make 
their  own  choice.  If  Nellie  wants  immersion,  I  say 
'Amen'  to  it;  and  if  you  want  to  be  sprinkled,  or  if  this 
gentlemen  across  the  table  wants  to  be  poured,  that's 
all  right.  I  remember  how  Cornelius  Allen  used  to 
always  keep  a-whalin'  to  me  that  immersion  was  the 
only  proper  form  of  baptism.  Then  one  time  he  jumped 
onto  Jim  Coombs  about  the  matter.  'Never  mind, 
Corny,'  says  Jim,  and  he  took  a  Bible  and  showed  where 
it  told  about  the  three  kinds  of  baptism.  That  made 
Corn  shut  up." 

"The  evangelist  said  he  preferred  immersion  him- 
self," Harvey  resumed,  "and  he  baptized  sixty-five  in 
one  day  over  here  on  French  Crick — put  'em  right 
under.  It  might  have  been  nearer  to  go  to  the  lake,  but 
a  curious  crowd  would  have  gathered  there  and  spoiled 
the  religious  solemnity  of  the  occasion.  He  couldn't 
baptize  such  a  number  in  a  waterin'  trough.  So  they 
drove  five  miles  back  in  the  woods  till  they  found  a 
place  where  the  crick  was  deep  enough.  It  was  off  the 
highroad  In  a  man's  pasture." 

"They  don't  have  any  such  powerful  revivals  as  they 
used  to  have,"  affirmed  Uncle  Gilbert.  "I've  been  In 
the  United  Brethren  Church  when  over  forty  fell  with 
the  power.    They'd  drop  right  down  unconscious." 

"What  made  'em  do  that.^"  asked  Nellie. 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  69 

"It  was  the  power  of  the  holy  spirit,"  he  replied. 

"I'd  sooner  believe  it  was  the  spirit  of  the  devil," 
Harvey  declared. 

"Land  sakes!  Harvey,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Gilbert, 
"you  don't  know  what  you're  talkin'  about.  Hain't 
you  read  in  your  Bible  how  the  holy  spirit  came  to 
Christ's  followers  on  the  Day  of  Pentecost.''" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Harvey.  "I've  had  an  interest  in 
the  Bible  for  only  six  weeks,  while  you've  been  readin' 
it  all  your  life." 

"Well,"  said  his  uncle,  "you  ask  this  here  one-eyed 
preacher  over  at  the  pond — what's  his  name.''  Higgins, 
yes,  that's  it.  You  ask  him  how  it  was  in  our  churches 
here  in  the  old  days.  He  was  a  boy  when  I  was.  He'll 
tell  you.  When  a  man  in  a  revival  meetin'  fell  with  the 
power,  he  didn't  know  anything  at  all,  and  except  that 
he  kep'  on  breathin'  you  might  have  thought  he  was 
dead.  I've  seen  'em  jab  a  pin  half  its  length  into  the  arm 
of  such  a  person,  and  he  wouldn't  flinch.  I  can  remember 
how  scairt  Grandma  Ticknor  was  when  her  husband 
fell  unconscious.  The  preachin'  and  singin'  and  prayin' 
never  stopped,  but  there  she  was  flutterin'  and  fussin* 
around  him  in  a  way  that  reminded  me  of  a  hen  with 
chickens.  'Pa,  what's  the  matter.^'  she  says.  *Pa, 
why  don't  you  say  something  to  me.^' 

"Then  there  was  old  Uncle  Ichabod  Fuller — he  fell 
in  the  same  way,  and  Aunt  Chloe,  his  wife,  sat  down  on 
the  floor  right  there  in  meetin',  took  his  head  in  her 
lap,  and  went  to  strokin'  his  face. 


70       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"After  the  service  ended  that  night  we  loaded  those 
who  were  unconscious  into  sleighs.  There  was  twenty- 
one  of  'em,  and  we  took  'em  to  their  homes,  or,  if  they 
didn't  live  near,  to  some  of  the  neighbors'  not  far  from 
the  church.  Jim  Coombs  was  taken  to  our  house,  and 
he  never  came  to  till  next  mornin'  at  breakfast  time.  He 
was  lyin'  on  the  sofa,  when  all  of  a  sudden  he  began 
clappin'  his  hands  and  screamin'  'Glory  to  God!'" 

"We'd  think  it  mighty  queer  if  people  carried  on  that 
way  now,"  was  Harvey's  comment. 

"That  might  all  be,  Harvey,"  responded  his  uncle. 
"Nevertheless,  perhaps  we'd  be  the  better  for  it." 

"But  why  ain't  people  stricken  with  power  now.'"' 
questioned  Nellie.     "Are  they  worse?" 

"For  one  thing,"  said  Uncle  Gilbert,  "the  preachers 
are  not  so  sincere.  Their  work  has  come  to  be  more  a 
way  of  makin'  a  livin'.  And  I'll  tell  you  my  candid 
belief — I  don't  know  it,  but  it's  my  belief — that  a  great 
deal  of  the  fault  lies  with  the  professin'  Christians. 
You  start  right  out,  and  go  where  you  please,  and  set 
still  and  listen  to  what  you  hear  in  the  meetin's — more 
than  half  the  testimonies  are  just  a  sort  of  form  and 
style.  People  ain't  careful  either  about  bringin'  their 
children  up  religiously.  I've  lived  a  good  many  years, 
and  I  can  tell  you  that  in  some  ways  we  hain't  been 
gettin'  better." 

"But  did  you  approve  of  all  that  was  done  in  the  old 
revivals.^"    Nellie  inquired. 

"Why,  no,"  said  he,  "I  don't  believe  in  goin'  out 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  71 

among  the  people  at  the  meetin's,  as  they  sometimes 
did,  and  gettin'  hold  and  pullin'  and  haulin'  and  urgin' 
to  come  forward.     Give  'em  the  chance,  but  it's  their 
business  to  make  the  final  decision.     Your  question 
brings  to  mind  a  protracted  meetin'  back  up  here  in  the 
country  about  four  miles.     They  were  havin'  a  great 
revival,  and  I  went  one  day.    I  think  it  was  a  Sunday, 
but  I  wouldn't  be  sure.    They  asked  those  that  felt  con- 
victed of  sin  to  rise  to  their  feet  or  put  up  a  hand,  and 
they'd   pray   for   'em.     Among   them   who   asked   for 
prayers  were  two  young  men.     One  set  up  near  the 
front,  and  the  other  back  further  near  where  I  was. 
After  they'd  been  prayed  for  the  minister  invited  'em 
to  speak,  and  tell  their  experience.    The  feller  near  the 
front  got  up  and  said  he  wanted  to  repent,  but  he  didn't 
feel  that  his  sins  were  forgiven.    So  they  prayed  for  him 
some  more  and  sang  a  hymn,  and  after  that  the  minister 
asked  the  other  feller  to  speak.    He  kind  o'  hung  back, 
but  the  people  who  was  most  active  in  the  revival  kept 
at  him,  tellin'  him  it  would  do  him  good  to  relieve  his 
mind,  and  by  and  by  he  got  on  his  feet.    Well,    I  could 
see  the  Old  Harry  stickin'  out  of  his  eyes  as  if  he  had 
some  deviltry  planned.     But  he  spoke  along  at  first 
testifyin'  in  the  usual  way,  and  the  minister  said  'Amen' 
a  time  or  two. 

"Then  the  feller  says,  'I'm  just  as  sure  of  heaven  as  I 
am  of  ketchin'  this  fly  on  my  sleeve.' 

"He  made  a  grab.    'By  gum!'  says  he,  'I've  missed 
him':   and  out  of  the  church  he  went. 


72        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"I  wouldn't  dare  do  such  a  thing  as  that,"  said 
Harvey.    "I'd  be  afraid  I'd  be  stricken  right  down." 

"It  brought  things  to  a  standstill  in  the  meetin', " 
said  Uncle  Gilbert,  "  and  it  was  quite  a  while  before  they 
could  get  goin'  again.  A  few  years  later  I  got  acquainted 
with  the  young  man  I  was  tellin'  you  about,  and  he  was 
just  that  wicked  he  didn't  believe  in  any  hereafter 
whatever.  He  said  he  didn't  expect  to  get  any  nearer 
heaven  than  his  old  horse  would. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  the  minister  we  had  at  our  church 
preached  Sundays  and  was  an  ordinary  laborer  the  rest 
of  the  days.  In  the  winter  he'd  go  to  the  woods  and  be 
there  from  Monday^mornin'  to  Saturday  night  choppin' 
down  trees  and  drawin'  logs  the  same  as  any  other  man. 
When  the  sleighin'  broke  up  he'd  go  onto  the  crick  and 
run  logs.  In  the  summer  he  worked  for  day  wages 
among  the  farmers.  He  was  a  good  preacher  and  a  man 
that  had  success  in  his  ministry.  A  great  many  were 
converted  under  his  preachin'.  To  pay  him  the  people 
gave  him  whatever  they  chose — money,  pork  and  hams, 
butter,  eggs,  a  load  of  hay  for  his  horse,  and  any  such 
things.  About  once  a  year  a  donation  party  was  got  up 
for  him,  usually  in  winter,  and  that  was  when  most  of 
the  givin'  was  done." 

We  were  still  sitting  at  the  supper  table,  except 
Uncle  Gilbert,  and  Harvey  had  absent-mindedly  eaten 
everything  within  reach.  I  now  suggested  that  it  was 
time  to  retire,  and  the  gathering  broke  up. 

In  the  morning  the  family  were  stirring  at  daybreak 


Picking  tomatoes 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  73 

and  we  had  an  early  breakfast.  While  we  were  eating, 
Nellie  happened  to  mention  that  she  had  been  a  school 
teacher.  This  made  Uncle  Gilbert  become  reminiscent, 
and  he  said:  "Your  grandmother,  Nellie,  began  teachin' 
at  fourteen  years  of  age;  but  she  was  fifteen  the  next 
month.  Her  wages  were  a  dollar  a  week.  She  boarded 
'round.  I  have  known  good  men  teachers  to  teach  for 
twelve  dollars  a  month  and  board  'round.  But  boardin' 
'round  went  out  of  fashion  long  ago,  and  now  we  pay 
the  teachers  fifty  dollars  for  a  twenty  day  month. 
When  I  was  young  they  taught  every  week  day.  After 
a  while  there  was  a  half  holiday  each  week,  and  of  late 
years  they've  got  it  so  they  have  the  whole  of  every 
Saturday,  and  the  teachers  think  it's  awful  because 
they  have  to  teach  six  hours  a  day.  Really,  there  ain't 
six  hours,  because  the  two  recesses  take  out  thirty 
minutes.  Our  old  schools  were  well  disciplined,  and 
the  teachers  done  well,  even  if  they  were  paid  less  than 
you  can  get  a  hired  girl  for  now. " 

After  breakfast  Harvey  showed  me  around  his  farm, 
ending  with  the  vineyard  where  we  sampled  the  grapes. 
"We'll  begin  pickin'  next  week,"  said  he.  "I  hire 
women  here  in  the  neighborhood  to  help.  Women  are 
much  better  than  men  for  that  job.  A  man's  fingers 
are  too  big  and  clumsy,  and  he  has  to  do  a  lot  of  fussin' 
and  trimmin'  to  fill  his  baskets  in  good  shape.  But  with 
the  women  the  grapes  seem  to  just  naturally  fall  in  the 
baskets  to  fill  'em  and  look  nice.  The  women  are  the 
best  strawberry  pickers,  too.     My  wife  can  pick  two 


74        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

hundred  baskets  in  a  day.  We  get  good  crops  here  and 
the  farmers  are  so  well  satisfied,  that  there's  rarely  a 
chance  to  buy  a  place,  unless  the  owner  has  made 
enough  money  to  retire  from  farming  and  live  in  the 
village.  Well,  I'd  like  to  do  that  myself,  but  I  don't 
know  what  I'd  retire  on  unless  it  was  my  looks. 

"However,  this  is  a  pleasant  neighborhood  right  here. 
We're  too  busy  with  our  crops  to  be  very  sociable  in 
summer;  but  in  winter,  when  work  ain't  pressin',  we 
try  to  get  better  acquainted  with  each  other.  We  had 
a  party  every  week  or  two  all  last  winter.  It  began  with 
surprise  parties.  They  tried  to  surprise  us,  but  we 
heard  what  was  intended  over  the  telephone  and  had  a 
chance  to  clean  the  house  and  get  ready.  We  took  up 
the  front  room  carpet  and  moved  the  furniture  out  so 
the  young  folks  would  have  a  place  to  play.  It  was  a 
good  room  for  dancing,  but  they  were  rather  shy  about 
that,  for  some  of  us  think  dancing  is  sinful.  I  used  to 
dance  until  I  began  going  with  Nellie.  Then  I  quit 
because  her  ma  was  opposed  to  it.  I  thought  too  much 
of  the  girl  to  take  any  risk  of  losing  her.  The  people  at 
the  party  who  liked  something  lively  played  Skip  to  My 
Lou  and  Needle's  Eye  and  just  such  silly  games,  and  the 
rest  set  in  their  chairs  and  visited.  About  eleven  o'clock 
supper  was  passed  around.  All  we  done  was  to  make 
coffee  and  tea.  Our  callers  brought  cake  and  pie  and 
whatever  they  wanted  to.  The  people  gradually  left 
after  supper,  and  by  one  o'clock  they'd  all  gone  home." 

The  young  farmer  now  turned  away  to  begin  the 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  75 

day's  work  in  earnest,  and  I  went  rambling  on  through 
the  countryside  until  I  came  to  the  lake.  Then  for  some 
miles  I  followed  the  shingly  shore  with  its  strewings  of 
driftwood  and  its  rippling  waves.  Adjacent  to  the 
water  was  a  strip  of  swampy  woodland,  and  beyond 
this  was  a  rough  ascent  to  the  plateau  where  was  the 
cultivated  farm  country.  While  I  was  walking  along 
the  beach  I  overtook  a  man  who  was  searching  in  the 
drift  rubbish  for  possible  treasures  washed  up  by  the 
waves.  A  companion  in  a  rowboat  took  on  whatever 
was  worth  carrying  off.  They  picked  up  beer  kegs, 
whiskey  bottles  and  occasional  pieces  of  board.  They 
said  they  went  out  from  Erie  every  day  and  explored 
different  strips  of  shore.  Monday  was  their  best  day, 
for  on  Sunday  people  enjoying  outings  threw  away  an 
unusual  number  of  the  kegs  and  bottles. 

In  nearly  every  glen  by  the  shore  was  a  shack  or  two 
and  evidence  of  fires  and  campers.  At  length  I  followed 
one  of  the  winding  paths  that  led  back  through  the 
woods.  It  took  me  up  a  steep  ravine  across  a  wild  bit  of 
pasturage,  where  I  could  hear  the  soberly  melodious 
tinkle  of  a  cowbell.  On  the  open  slopes  grew  rose  vines 
loaded  with  scarlet  hips,  and,  in  a  boggy  spot  were  some 
delicate  fringed  gentians.  Presently  I  got  to  a  highway 
and  kept  on  till  I  came  to  a  field  in  which  two  young 
men  were  busy  picking  tomatoes.  I  accosted  them  and 
in  the  chat  that  followed  mentioned  where  I  had  stopped 
the  previous  night,  and  spoke  of  the  tent-meetings. 

"It's   awful   easy  to  wind   up   some  people,"   com- 


76       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

merited  one  of  the  men.  "There's  persons  here  that 
never  done  a  day's  work  the  whole  six  weeks  of  the 
revival.  I  don't  know  whether  they  can  winter  on  it  or 
not.  This  here  preacher  took  on  awful  about  secret 
societies,  and  I  heared  tell  that  one  man  who'd  joined 
the  Odd  Fellers  only  this  spring  throwed  away  his  lodge 
pin  and  give  up  the  whole  thing.  It's  a  gift  o'  gab  that 
does  the  trick,  and  I'll  bet  you  that  just  as  good  a  talker 
could  hold  forth  up  there  at  the  grove  against  every- 
thing this  evangelist  said  and  get  'em  all. 

"I  remember  when  Harvey's  dad  got  religion.  Gee 
whiz!  he  blame  near  went  crazy.  Well,  sir,  he  become 
one  of  these  holy  rollers — 'Evening  Lights'  I  think  they 
call  themselves.  They  claim  it  ain't  right  to  hire  a 
minister,  and  so  each  congregation  selects  one  of  their 
own  number,  and  he  preaches  as  the  spirit  moves,  with- 
out pay.  Then,  too,  if  one  of  'em  is  sick  they  don't  have 
no  doctor  or  give  any  medicine,  but  just  set  around  in 
the  sick  room  and  sing  and  pray. 

"I  went  to  the  baptizin'  at  the  time  of  that  revival 
fifteen  years  ago.  It  was  over  on  French  Crick.  The 
preacher  waded  in,  and  he  got  along  pretty  well  ducking 
the  converts  one  after  another  until  he  come  to  a  big  fat 
woman.  She  got  away  from  him,  and  he  had  to  have 
help.  That  created  quite  an  excitement,  and  the  father 
of  one  of  the  young  fellers  who  was  waitin'  to  be  bap- 
tized whispered  to  him,  'Herb,  I'll  give  you  ten  dollars 
if  you'll  duck  the  preacher.' 

"  'By  gol!    I'll  do  it,'  says  Herbert. 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  'j'j 

"He  was  a  little  feller,  but  withy  as  a  whalebone,  and 
as  much  at  home  in  the  water  as  a  fish.  Pretty  soon  the 
preacher  baptized  him.  As  soon  as  Herb  was  on  his 
feet  again  he  just  give  his  face  a  wipe  with  his  hands  so 
he  could  see  where  he  was  at,  dove  under  and  grabbed 
that  tall  slim  preacher  by  the  legs  and  tumbled  him 
backwards  in  all  over.  Then  he  swam  across  the  crick 
and  set  on  the  bank.  After  the  preacher  had  recovered 
his  footing  and  had  the  water  out  of  his  eyes  and  mouth 
he  did  give  Herb  a  terrible  tongue-lashin'.  You  see  the 
man  was  twelve  miles  from  home,  and  he'd  got  to  preach 
that  afternoon.  I  guess  he  had  an  extra  pair  of  pants, 
but  he  hadn't  calculated  on  getting  his  shirt  or  his  other 
upper  clothing  wet." 

Just  as  my  acquaintance  finished  this  story  his  father, 
an  elderly  man  who  carried  a  cane,  joined  us,  and  sat 
down  on  a  tomato  box.  He  had  come  to  complain  that 
some  of  their  hired  men  on  another  part  of  the  farm 
were  not  doing  their  work  properly. 

"  Of  late  years, "  said  the  son  to  me,  "  most  of  our  help 
are  Polocks.  Those  that  come  from  the  old  country  are 
pretty  steady  and  reliable;  but  you  take  these  Polocks 
that  are  raised  here,  and  they  tear  around  nights  and 
are  wild  as  hawks.  It's  the  new  generation  that  I've 
got.  Usually  they're  fair  sort  of  workers,  but  they  went 
to  town  last  night  and  took  a  little  too  much  opedildoc. 
So  they're  grouchy  and  cranky  today." 

"I've  lived  here  all  my  life,"  said  the  old  man,  "and 
I'll  say  this — you  can't  hire  a  man  for  two  dollars  and  a 


78        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

half  a  day  who'll  do  as  much  work  as  a  man  used  to  do 
for  fifty  cents.  They  can  play  ball  as  much  as  ever, 
but  they  can't  stand  the  work.  Think  of  what  a  task 
the  early  settlers  had  to  clear  up  their  farms  here.  The 
land  was  covered  with  heavy  timber — beech,  maple, 
chestnut,  hemlock.  They'd  slash  down  a  piece,  cut  it 
up  in  log  lengths  such  as  a  team  could  handle,  pile  it  up 
and  burn  it.  The  quicker  they  got  the  ground  cleared 
up  the  better.  They  wanted  to  get  to  raising  something. 
The  cleared  land  would  first  be  pastured,  for  they 
couldn't  plough,  there  were  so  many  stumps  in  it,  and 
they  had  to  wait  a  few  years  for  the  stumps  to  rot. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  there  was  ten  log  houses  to  one 
frame  house.  The  walls  were  of  the  hardwood  trees 
that  grew  here,  and  the  cracks  were  stopped  with 
chinkin' — that  is,  with  slender  pieces  split  out  of  bass- 
wood.  We  mixed  up  some  clay  mud  and  plastered  over 
the  cracks  and  chinkin'  on  the  outside.  The  inside  of 
the  walls  we'd  hew  down  smooth  enough  so  we  could 
paste  paper  onto  'em.  The  floor  was  of  split  basswood 
smoothed  off  with  an  adz.  Our  fireplace  was  of  stone, 
and  was  so  large  we  could  roll  logs  eight  feet  long  right 
into  it.  Those  logs  were  big  and  green  enough  to  last 
for  days.  We  had  no  candles,  no  lamps,  no  nothin', 
except  the  light  from  the  fire  in  the  fireplace. 

"The  winters  were  cold  and  snowy,  and  we  usually 
had  considerable  sleighing.  We  rarely  get  sleighing 
now.  There's  no  timber  to  hold  the  snow,  and  it  blows 
off  in  too  many  places  and  leaves  the  ground  bare. 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  79 

The  rail  fences  used  to  ketch  the  drifts,  and  the  roads 
would  be  so  filled  up  we'd  have  a  time  of  shoveling  out, 
and  of  ploughing  a  track  with  our  oxen.  Pretty  much 
all  the  farmers  had  oxen  then.  I  didn't  know  enough  to 
drive  'em  myself.    They  wouldn't  mind  me  someway. 

"There's  been  great  changes  within  my  memory.  I 
think  at  times  of  how  we  had  to  hitch  up  whenever  we 
wanted  to  speak  to  anybody  before  we  had  telephones; 
and  I  wonder,  with  all  the  improvements  they're  makin' 
and  easier  ways  they're  inventin'  for  doin'  work,  what 
shape  things  will  be  in  fifty  years  from  now. 

"But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing  where  old  times  had  us 
beat  way  out  of  sight,  and  that's  in  celebratin'  Fourth  of 
July.  Everyone  around  here  went  to  Erie  to  spend  the 
day,  and  the  noise  and  speeches  and  fun  we  had  there 
ain't  been  equalled  since.  Perhaps  the  person  I  recollect 
most  clearly  in  the  celebration  was  old  drum-major 
Fitch.  He  was  one  of  the  head  men  on  such  occasions, 
walking  around  and  drumming.  Besides,  he  was  a  great 
feller  to  get  up  verses  on  anything,  and  he  was  a  leader 
in  our  Erie  Railroad  war.  We  had  quite  a  mess  then. 
As  often  as  the  railroad  built  any  track  here  a  lot  of 
fellers  would  get  together  and  tip  a  whole  string  of  the 
new  track  right  over." 

From  other  sources  I  heard  more  of  this  railroad  war. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  curious  episodes  in  the  history  of 
transportation.  In  1853,  when  this  war  occurred,  the 
railroads  connecting  what  are  today  the  great  cities  of 
the  country  ran  one,  or  at  most,  two  trains  a  day.    On 


8o        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

the  New  York  and  Erie,  one  of  the  fastest  and  best 
equipped  of  American  railroads,  the  mail  train  ran  half 
the  distance  one  day,  and  then  stopped  over  night  before 
it  proceeded  on  its  way.  A  fruitful  cause  of  delays  was 
the  variety  in  guages  of  the  different  roads,  so  that  the 
trains  of  one  road  could  not  run  on  another.  Thus,  at 
Erie,  the  road  from  the  east  was  four  feet  and  ten  inches, 
while  that  from  the  west  was  six  feet.  If  connections 
failed  as  they  often  did,  passengers  had  at  least  to  eat 
one  or  more  meals  in  Erie,  and  often  were  delayed  there 
over  night. 

Such  a  state  of  affairs,  though  quite  satisfactory  to  the 
local  hotel  men,  was  very  annoying  to  travellers.  The 
city  authorities  refused  to  allow  the  guage  of  the  roads 
within  the  municipal  limits  to  be  made  uniform,  and 
when  the  eastern  road  ignored  this  refusal  and  began 
to  change  its  rails  to  conform  to  those  of  the  western 
road  the  courthouse  bell  was  rung  to  summon  the  citi- 
zens. The  people  were  emphatically  unwilling  to  be 
made  a  "way-station  on  a  through  route,"  and  lose  the 
advantages  of  being  a  terminus  for  railroads  and  steam- 
boat lines.  After  listening  to  impassioned  speech- 
making  from  the  courthouse  steps,  the  crowd,  led  by 
the  mayor,  started  for  the  wooden  railroad  bridge. 
Employees  of  the  railroad  were  there  on  guard,  but  they 
were  quickly  routed  by  a  shower  of  rotten  eggs  and  other 
missiles,  and  the  mob  wrecked  the  bridge  and  returned 
in  triumph.  Two  days  later  a  similar  mob  destroyed  a 
railroad  bridge  at  Harbor  Creek,  a  few  miles  east  of  the 


Stacking  corn 


The  Pennsylvania  Shore  8i 

city.  This  bridge  was  rebuilt  by  the  company  four 
times,  and  each  time  was  promptly  burned  or  torn 
down. 

For  three  years  the  fight  continued.  "Break  guage 
at  Erie,  or  have  no  railroad,"  was  the  motto  of  the 
"Rippers,"  as  the  opponents  of  the  road  were  called, 
because  of  their  violent  methods.  There  was  a  gap  of 
seven  miles  between  the  two  roads.  Horace  Greeley, 
the  famous  editor  of  the  New  York  Tribune^  passed 
through  Erie  at  this  time  and  had  to  "cross  the 
isthmus"  in  an  open  sleigh  through  a  severe  storm  of 
wind  and  sleet.  After  that  the  railroad  managers  and 
the  townspeople  were  continually  denounced  in  his 
paper.  "Let  Erie  be  avoided  by  all  travellers,"  he 
wrote  on  his  return,  "until  grass  shall  grow  in  her  streets 
and  till  her  piemen  in  despair  shall  move  away  to  some 
other  city." 

At  last  the  courts  and  legislature  settled  the  matter. 
Both  parties  made  concessions,  and  trains  ran  peace- 
ably through  Erie. 

Note. — Erie  has  some  important  industries  that  are  interesting, 
and  there  are  shores  in  the  vicinity  that  are  pleasantly  picturesque; 
but  I  think  the  grape  industry  which  flourishes  almost  the  entire 
distance  between  Erie  and  Buffalo  is  the  finest  attraction  of  the 
region.  Naturally  the  country  is  most  lusciously  attractive  in 
autumn,  and  October  is  the  ideal  month  to  see  the  harvest  in 
progress. 


.  V  . 

AN     AUTUMN     PARADISE 

I  HAD  Stopped  at  Sandusky — not  in  search  of  a 
Paradise,  but  because  it  was  in  the  vicinity  where 
Commodore  Perry  won  his  famous  victory.  The 
city,  however,  is  in  a  region  that  has  a  notable  reputation 
for  its  peaches,  and  the  harvest  was  then  in  progress. 
There  is  no  crop  more  deliciously  attractive,  and  when  I 
expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  orchards  I  was  advised  to 
visit  Catawba  Island. 

"And  how  shall  I  get  to  the  island?"  I  inquired. 
"Is  there  a  ferry .^" 

"There's  no  need  for  that,"  was  the  response.  "It's 
only  separated  from  the  mainland  by  marshes  and  a 
narrow  streak  of  open  channel.  You  go  by  railway  to 
Gypsum,  and  you'll  find  a  causeway  and  bridge  by 
which  you  can  cross  to  the  island  easy." 

So  to  Gypsum  I  went  and  was  soon  tramping  a  dusty 
island  road.  I  met  an  occasional  load  of  peaches  going 
to  market,  and  by  and  by  one  of  the  returning  wagons 
came  jogging  along,  and  the  driver  invited  me  to  ride. 
After  I  had  clambered  up  on  the  broad  platform  of  the 
wagon  beside  him  and  we  had  started  on  I  asked  him 
how  far  he  was  going. 

"I'm  working  for  a  man,"  said  he,  "whose  place  is 


An  Autumn  Paradise  83 

over  on  the  other  side  of  the  island,  seven  or  eight  miles 
from  the  railroad  station.  He's  an  old-timer  at  the 
peach  business.  In  fact,  he  began  thirty  years  ago,  and 
was  one  of  the  first  to  put  in  peach  trees  here.  Now 
there's  hardly  anything  but  peaches  raised  on  the  island. 
Our  soil  seems  to  be  just  suited  to  'em,  and  we  get  a 
flavor  in  our  fruit  that  they  don't  elsewhere.  You  can 
see  a  whole  lot  of  difference  between  our  peaches  and 
those  grown  no  farther  away  than  across  the  harbor." 
The  peach  orchards  made  a  rather  monotonous 
landscape;  for  the  individual  trees  were  in  nowise 
striking,  and  in  each  orchard  they  were  all  about  the 
same  size,  set  in  regular  rows,  with  the  ground  beneath 
ploughed  and  harrowed.  But  the  blushing  fruit  that 
hung  in  such  abundance  on  the  branches  was  sufficiently 
beautiful  to  make  up  for  any  other  deficiencies. 
Nature's  bounty  was  very  evident,  and  I  wondered  that 
the  buildings  of  the  orchard  owners  should  so  often  be 
unkempt  in  their  surroundings  and  suffering  for  paint 
and  repairs.  But  my  driver  enlightened  me.  Peach- 
raising  here  had  not  been  without  serious  vicissitudes. 
"The  San  Jose  scale  got  into  the  orchards,"  said  he, 
"the  trees  began  to  die,  and  we  started  to  fight  it.  We 
tried  whale  oil  soap,  and  kerosene,  and  other  sorts  of 
oils.  But  a  peach  tree  is  too  delicate  for  such  things, 
and  the  oils  were  almost  as  fatal  as  the  scale.  Now 
we're  using  the  sulphur-lime  mixture,  and  that  does  the 
business.  Spraying  and  all,  raising  peaches  is  expen- 
sive, but  they're  profitable  just  the  same. 


84        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"Last  April  we  thought  we  were  going  to  lose  this 
year's  crop.  There  came  six  inches  of  snow  when  the 
trees  were  in  full  bloom,  but  it  seemed  to  help  them. 
If  the  weather  had  turned  around  and  froze — oh  my! 
we  wouldn't  be  shipping  peaches  this  fall.  When  we 
have  a  failure  in  'em  we  get  none  at  all.  I  remember  a 
year  when  there  was  only  four  peaches  on  the  island 
that  anybody  knew  about.  The  fellow  that  owned  the 
orchard  they  was  in  was  saving  'em  till  they  was  nice 
and  ripe,  but  one  night  someone  swiped  'em. 

"The  peaches  this  season  are  not  as  large  as  they 
would  have  been  if  we'd  had  more  moist  weather.  We 
was  dry  as  a  powder-house  here  all  summer.  Prices 
ain't  very  satisfactory,  either.  Ordinarily  we  call  it  a 
cheap  peach  that  sells  for  two  dollars  a  bushel,  and  we 
get  twice  that  for  our  best  ones,  but  this  year  the  price 
has  dropped  more'n  half.  That's  partly  because  there's 
an  awful  crop.  Then  there  was  one  while  we  were 
blocked  for  cars,  and  that  knocked  the  stuffing  out  of 
prices.  You  see  a  peach  won't  hold  up  like  an  apple. 
They  have  to  be  marketed  at  once,  and  the  sooner  they 
get  to  the  consumer  the  better.  But  the  principal 
trouble  with  prices  has  been  that  the  buyers  have  taken 
advantage  of  us.  It's  like  this — our  peaches  are  auctioned 
at  Gypsum  every  afternoon.  The  loads  are  lined  up 
there  right  smart  thick — perhaps  a  hundred  or  more — 
and  one  after  the  other  they  are  bid  off.  A  slew  of 
buyers  are  on  hand  from  the  cities,  and  they  take  all  the 
fruit  that's  offered  and  pay  for  it  right  on  the  spot. 


An  Autumn  Paradise  85 

But  lately  a  buyer  named  Healey  fixed  up  an  under- 
standing so  the  buyers  wouldn't  run  up  the  price. 
The  other  day  the  farmers  gave  him  a  calling  down 
there  proper,  and  I  don't  expect  he'll  show  up  any 
more.  There's  another  buyer  they're  talking  about 
sending  off — he  gets  full  and  makes  a  fool  of  himself  a 
little  too  often. 

"However,  the  farmers  themselves  ain't  faultless. 
Some,  In  their  hurry  to  get  their  peaches  early  Into  the 
market,  pick  'em  green.  The  fruit  ain't  fit  to  eat  and 
they  know  It.  But  the  skin  will  color  up,  and  though 
it  Is  apt  to  shrivel,  most  retail  buyers  are  deceived  and 
think  they're  Investing  In  fine  fruit.  When  they  find 
how  sour  and  flat  it  tastes  they're  disgusted  with 
peaches,  and  that  hurts  future  sales." 

We  at  length  reached  the  farm  where  my  companion 
worked,  and  at  parting  he  said:  "You  want  to  look  out 
for  snakes  while  you're  on  the  Island.  This  rocky 
country  just  suits  'em,  and  they're  pretty  plentiful. 
I  often  see  snake  tracks  crossing  the  highway — big  ones, 
too.  We  have  rattlesnakes  and  copperheads  and  blue 
racers — all  of  'em  vicious.  But  they  won't  bother  you 
If  you  leave  'em  alone.  The  other  day  I  stepped  on  a 
rattlesnake.  He  was  right  In  the  path  to  the  packing- 
house, and  I  tell  you  I  jumped  farther  backward  than  I 
ever  shall  forward.  Once  In  a  while  a  dog  gets  bitten. 
Generally  a  bitten  dog  will  go  and  lay  right  In  the  mud, 
and  they  claim  that  draws  the  poison  out.    But  my  dog 


86       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

got  bit  in  the  cheek  this  summer  and  he  died  the  same 
day. 

"There  used  to  be  quite  a  few  milk-snakes  here. 
I  know  a  fellow  who  noticed  he  wa'n't  getting  the  milk 
he  ought  to  get  from  one  of  his  cows.  So  he  watched 
her,  and  while  she  was  lying  down  out  in  the  pasture 
he  saw  one  of  those  short,  thick,  light-colored  milk- 
snakes  come  and  suck  her.  He  killed  it  in  a  hurry,  you 
bet  you!" 

At  the  rear  of  the  farmhouse  hung  a  bell  on  a  pole 
that  was  perhaps  a  dozen  feet  high,  and  a  woman  now 
came  from  a  back  door,  laid  hold  of  a  wire  that  dangled 
down  the  pole  and  set  the  bell  in  motion.  This  was  the 
signal  for  dinner.  The  ding  dong  was  not  very  musical, 
but  it  very  likely  sounded  surpassingly  sweet  to  the 
hungry  workers. 

I  went  on  until  I  came  to  a  little  lakeside  village. 
Down  by  the  shore  was  a  fish-house  and  two  or  three 
wharves,  and  in  the  lee  of  the  fish-house  wharf  were 
some  large  flat-bottomed  rowboats  idly  rocking  on  the 
waves.  Several  fishermen  were  loitering  about,  and  I 
made  their  acquaintance.  "We  go  to  and  from  the 
fishing-grounds  in  those  rowboats,"  said  a  man  who 
seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  overseer;  "but  we  don't  use  the 
oars  much.  A  steam  tug  tows  us.  We're  employed  by 
a  big  Chicago  company  and  have  stiddy  work  all 
through  the  year.  They  allow  us  two  vacations  of  a 
week  each,  one  that  takes  in  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  the 
other  to  include  Christmas.    That  gives  us  a  chance  to 


Ohio  peaches 


An  Autumn  Paradise  87 

go  off  and  celebrate,  which  means  getting  drunk  for  a 
good  many  of  us.  Most  of  the  men  are  married  and  live 
on  the  island  with  their  families. 

"I've  knocked  around  on  all  these  lakes,  and  you 
won't  find  much  better  waters  for  fishing  than  we've 
got  right  along  here.  The  season  generally  opens 
toward  the  end  of  March,  and  we  keep  at  it  till  late  in 
the  fall.  We  have  over  a  hundred  nets,  and  in  winter 
we  are  busy  mending  'em,  and  doing  other  repairing 
and  odd  jobs.  Sandusky  is  such  a  center  for  shipping 
fish  that  we  call  it  "Fish  Town."  They're  handling 
'em  even  in  midwinter.  Lots  of  pickerel  that  have  been 
caught  with  a  hook  and  line  through  the  ice  are  brought 
in  there.  I  saw  one  that  long,"  holding  his  hands 
thirty  inches  apart,  "when  I  happened  to  be  in  town 
last  January.  I  can  vouch  for  the  size  because  I 
swiped  it  out  of  a  barrel  and  took  it  home  and  ate  it. 

"While  the  season  lasts  we  plan  to  go  out  to  the  fish- 
ing grounds  every  morning.  Sometimes,  when  there's  a 
north-east  blow,  it's  a  little  too  leerie,  and  we  miss  a 
lift  or  two;  but  it'd  surprise  you  to  see  the  weather 
these  little  boats'll  take.  Our  last  serious  accident  was 
two  years  ago.  It  was  a  nasty  day,  and  a  launch  was 
towing  one  of  the  fish-boats.  Coming  around  Mouse 
Island  a  wave  ketched  the  boat  and  threw  one  of  the 
men  into  the  water,  and  he  was  drowned. 

"Of  late  years  carp  have  become  an  important  fish 
in  this  region.  Carp  are  a  mud  fish  just  like  the  bull- 
head, and  as  they're  always  nosing  around  in  the  mud 


88 


Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 


they  take  up  the  taste.  I'd  wait  a  good  while  before  I'd 
eat  'em.  They're  a  blame  nuisance,  but  they  sell  well. 
The  Germans  and  the  other  old  country  men  buy  them 
because  they're  cheap.  There's  a  man  at  Sandusky 
who  has  a  pond  where  he  fattens  'em.  They  come  to 
the  marshes  bordering  the  harbor  to  spawn,  and  he 
furnishes  boats  and  nets  and  pays  so  much  a  pound  for 
ketching  'em  and  putting  'em  In  his  pond.    A  carp  has  a 

grinder  similar  to  that  of  a   horse— regular  teeth it 

sure  has;  and  he  feeds  'em  on  cracked  corn.  When  he 
goes  out  on  the  pond  with  the  corn  and  raps  on  the  side 
of  the  boat,  the  fish  come  like  a  flock  of  pigs,  and  jump 
out  of  the  water  and  splash  around  and  follow  the  boat. 
After  about  two  months  the  pond  Is  pumped  down  so  he 
can  drag  it  easily  with  a  seine.  This  year  he  took  out 
ninety-eight  tons  that  he  sold  for  four  cents  a  pound. 
They  were  shipped  In  tank  cars  and  so  carried  to  New 
York  alive.  There  are  many  other  ponds  along  the 
Erie  shore  where  carp  are  handled  in  the  same  way. " 

I  presently  left  the  fishermen  and  went  tramping 
back  across  the  island,  regaling  myself  meanwhile  on 
the  peaches  that  plentifully  bestrewed  the  ground 
under  the  roadside  trees.  By  and  by  I  met  a  boy  on  his 
way  home  from  school.  He  too  was  eating  peaches,  and 
when  I  asked  him  how  many  he  disposed  of  in  a  day  he 
named  a  hundred  as  his  capacity.  Probably  he  over- 
estimated. The  teacher  had  kept  him  a  half  hour  after 
the  other  children  had  gone,  and  he  was  doubtless 
feeling  uncommonly  ravenous  just  then. 


An  Autumn  Paradise  89 

Near  by  was  a  packing-house,  and  a  man  was  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway.  "It  pleases  me,"  said  he,  "to  see 
the  way  the  help  we  hire  eat  peaches  when  they  first 
come  to  begin  picking.  Peaches  don't  fill  up  any,  and 
it's  astonishing  how  many  a  fellow  can  stow  away,  and 
yet  be  as  hungry  at  mealtime  as  if  he  hadn't  eaten  any." 

The  afternoon  was  warm,  and  I  went  into  the  cool  of 
the  packing-house  to  rest  for  a  little  while.  The  man 
who  had  spoken  to  me  at  the  door,  and  two  women 
constituted  the  packing  force.  They  had  finished 
putting  up  all  the  peaches  that  had  been  brought  in 
from  the  orchard  and  were  waiting  for  the  next  load. 
The  women  were  looking  at  a  many-paged  illustrated 
catalog  of  a  Chicago  mail-order  house.  "Some  fami- 
lies buy  all  their  provisions  from  this  firm,"  remarked 
one  of  the  women,  "  and  they  buy  their  shoes  and  clothes 
and  most  everything  else  there,  too.  I  want  a  sewing 
machine.  They'll  send  it  on  thirty  days'  trial.  Prob- 
ably I  could  get  my  sewing  all  done  in  that  time  so  I 
could  ship  the  machine  back." 

"I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  get  some  medicine  from  'em 
to  rub  on  and  cure  this  peach  fuzz  itch,"  observed  the 
other  woman.  "The  fuzz  poisons  my  hands  and  arms 
and  makes  my  eyes  inflame.  The  hotter  and  sweatier 
the  weather  the  worse  the  fuzz  bites.  Some  days  it 
drives  rne  pretty  near  wild.  It  flies  in  the  air,  and 
tickles  in  my  throat  and  makes  me  sneeze.  I'm  troubled 
more  than  most  by  it,  but  all  of  us  are  troubled  some." 

"I  guess  you  wish  our  farmers  would  raise  some  other 


90        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

crops  besides  peaches,"  said  the  first  woman.  "But 
they  seem  bound  to  set  the  trees  out  all  over  their  land, 
and  don't  leave  hardly  ground  for  pastures  nor  nothing. 
Most  families  used  to  have  six  or  seven  cows,  where  now 
they  do  well  if  they  keep  two  or  three.  All  we  care 
about  is  to  have  enough  milk  and  butter  from  'em  for 
our  own  use.  A  good  deal  of  the  feed  has  to  be  bought 
but  when  I  was  a  girl  our  own  hayfields  supplied  us 
and  we  had  great  big  pastures.  Gracious!  sometimes 
I'd  have  to  go  hunting  for  Grandma's  cows  in  her 
pasture,  and  it  didn't  seem  as  if  I'd  ever  get  down  to  the 
end  of  that  pasture.  When  I  found  'em  I'd  chase  'em 
up  into  the  lane  and  shut  the  gate  behind  'em.  Grand- 
ma would  come  from  the  house  with  a  pail  In  each  hand 
and  milk  'em  there  in  the  lane.  All  the  older  women 
milked.  I  tried  it  once  after  Grandma  died.  Father 
usually  did  the  milking  then,  but  one  time  he  had  sore 
hands,  and  I  said  I'd  milk.  I  sat  down  beside  Brindle 
and  began — but,  oh  Lord!  I  was  scairt  to  death.  Every 
time  the  cow  looked  around  I  jumped  up  and  run. 

"Now  most  of  the  old  pasture  is  growing  to  peaches. 
One  part  was  almost  solid  rock  with  a  little  skimming  of 
soil  on  top,  and  in  order  to  start  trees  on  it  we  shot  out 
holes  with  dynamite  to  set  'em  in.  They  didn't  live 
long  for  lack  of  moisture,  yet  if  the  rock  had  been  loose 
stone  they'd  have  thriven.  So  it  happens  we  still  have  a 
pasture.  But,  as  I  said,  we  buy  most  of  our  hay,  and  we 
buy  all  our  fuel,  too,  except  summer  firewood.  The 
peach  trees  furnish  that,  though  it's  poor  stuff,  for  we 


/  ishi 


An  Autumn  Paradise  91 

only  cut  down  a  tree  or  remove  a  large  branch  when  it's 
dead,  and  the  wood  is  punky. " 

Across  the  road  from  the  packing-house  was  a  pig 
yard,  and  the  pigs  were  faring  sumptuously  at  this 
season  on  the  partially  decayed  peaches  that  would 
otherwise  be  useless.  "Those  peaches  make  good 
pork,"  said  the  man,  "and  it's  surprising  how  fast  the 
pigs  can  eat  'em,  at  the  same  time  spitting  out  all  the 
pits." 

While  he  was  speaking,  another  load  arrived  from  the 
orchard,  and  labor  was  resumed  at  the  sorting-machine. 
The  man  emptied  the  baskets  in  at  the  upper  end,  and 
one  of  the  women  worked  the  treadles  and  guided  the 
peaches  to  the  runway  where  they  rolled  gently  down 
an  incline,  and,  beginning  with  the  smallest  and  ending 
with  the  largest,  fell  into  chutes  and  found  their  way  to 
a  row  of  baskets.  Peach-picking  had  begun  late  in 
August  and  would  continue  until  the  middle  of  October. 
A  great  many  varieties  were  grown  on  the  island,  and' 
each  farmer  had  both  early  and  late  ones  to  make  the 
season  as  long  as  possible  and  enable  him  to  handle  them 
to  advantage. 

When  I  was  about  to  leave  the  packing-house  the 
man  called  my  attention  to  a  particularly  fine  basket 
of  peaches  which  he  said  he  was  going  to  send  to  rela- 
tives down  in  the  central  part  of  the  state.  "I  shall 
cover  it  with  slats  and  make  it  all  secure, "  said  he,  "  and 
yet  it'll  be  sure  to  be  broken  into.  Well,  sir,  by  crackeel 
I  expect  pretty  near  half  those  peaches  will  be  taken  on 


92       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

the  way.  That  happens  every  year.  It's  a  shame." 
In  the  early  gloom  of  the  evening  I  was  back  at  the 
railroad  and  took  a  train  for  Sandusky.  But  the  train 
had  not  gone  far  when  it  came  to  a  standstill.  There 
had  been  a  freight  wreck  on  ahead,  and  we  were 
delayed  for  hours,  meanwhile  getting  hungrier  all  the 
time  until  one  man  declared  he  could  "eat  the  jamb  off 
the  door. " 

Catawba  Island  is  the  paradise  of  peaches  in  this 
vicinity,  but  the  rest  of  the  farming  country  is  a  paradise 
also  in  its  way.  On  another  day  I  rambled  into  the 
region  south  of  Sandusky,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look 
on  the  rich  level  lands  and  see  everywhere  such  evi- 
dences of  comfort  and  prosperity.  I  followed  the  long, 
straight  roads,  turning  an  occasional  right-angled 
corner  in  a  search  for  variety.  On  either  side  of  the 
highway  were  deep  drainage  ditches,  and  after  a  while  I 
came  across  a  man  cleaning  out  and  enlarging  one  of 
them.  I  spoke  to  him,  found  him  sociably  inclined,  and 
then  I  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  a  near  tree  with  my 
back  against  a  fence  post  to  have  a  chat.  He  was  a 
gray-whiskered,  round-shouldered  man  with  a  black 
slouch  hat  crowded  down  onto  his  ears.  While  we 
talked  he  worked  quite  steadily,  only  pausing  to  make 
a  specially  interesting  or  emphatic  point.  He  was  work- 
ing for  the  owner  of  an  adjacent  farm.  "The  ditch  is 
for  the  land's  sake,  not  for  the  road's  sake,"  said  he. 
"It'll  improve  the  man's  hayfield,  and  he'll  git  some 
dirt  to  fill  up  a  low  place  in  his  yard." 


An  Autumn  Paradise  93 

The  excavation  was  so  wide  and  deep  it  seemed  to 
impress  all  beholders.  Men  came  from  neighboring 
fields  to  look  into  it,  and  many  a  passing  team  paused 
while  the  driver  asked  the  why  and  wherefore  of  the 
work.  Sometimes  the  driver  would  alight  for  a  closer 
examination.  One  farmer  who  lived  close  by  let  his 
team  go  on  into  the  yard  while  he  remained  and  talked, 
and  I  observed  that  his  wife  came  out  of  the  house  and 
unhitched  the  horse. 

The  man  who  was  most  critical  had  been  drinking, 
and  he  had  imbibed  just  freely  enough  to  make  him 
capable  of  pronouncing  judgment  with  infallible 
wisdom  on  anything  to  which  he  gave  his  attention. 

"Hiram,"  said  he,  addressing  the  worker,  "what  is 
this  here  darn  thing  you're  a-dlggin'?" 

"It's  a  ditch,"  responded  Hiram,  stopping  long 
enough  to  clean  the  point  of  his  pickax  with  his  thumb 
and  finger,  "I'm  diggin'  a  ditch,  Joe." 

"Well,  by  gracious  Peter!"  exclaimed  the  other, 
"then  why  don't  you  slope  the  sides .^" 

"My  orders  were  to  dig  it  as  I  am  a-diggin'  it," 
replied  Hiram. 

"But,"  said  Joe,  "the  sides  ought  to  be  slanted 
enough  so  the  grass  will  grow  on  'em,  or  else  the  banks'll 
be  cavin'  in  next  spring.  Hiram,  you  don't  know  what 
you're  doin'.  The  ditch  and  this  dirt  don't  belong  to 
no  private  individuals.  You  better  quit  right  where 
you're  at,  or  I'll  tell  the  county  commissioners,  and 
they'll  come  here  and  take  you  to  jail.     I  wouldn't 


94       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

work  for  the  man  you're  workin'  for  anyway.  He 
wanted  me  to  put  up  a  stretch  of  fence  for  him  last  year, 
and  we  each  measured  the  distance  twice,  in  order  to 
make  a  bargain  for  the  job,  but  his  measure  and  mine 
didn't  agree,  and  I  went  off.  Later  his  wife  sent  for  me 
and  asked  what  the  matter  was.  I  told  her  about  our 
not  measurin'  alike,  and  I  says,  'I  don't  know  whether 
I'm  losin'  my  mind,  or  whether  you've  married  a  fool.' 
But  she  and  I  talked  it  over,  and  she  said  she'd  pay  me 
my  price.    So  I  did  the  work." 

"What  time  is  it,  Joe,  by  your  gold  watch  and 
chain?"  inquired  the  digger  as  he  spat  on  his  hands 
and  took  a  fresh  grip  on  his  pick. 

"By  the  chain  it's  dinner  time,"  Joe  answered, 
taking  his  watch  from  his  pocket;  "but  by  the  watch 
it's  only  eleven  o'clock,  standard  time." 

"So  you  carry  standard  time  the  same  as  the  town 
fellers,"  commented  the  digger.  "But  sun  time — 
God's  time —  is  good  enough  for  me. " 

After  Joe  had  gone,  the  ditch-digger  remarked :  "  He's 
a  crazy  bat  when  he's  drunk,  but  he's  a  good  worker  at 
such  times  as  he  is  sober.  The  trouble  is  he  can't  let 
liquor  alone,  and  drinks  all  his  wages.  'Twas  the  same 
way  with  his  father.  Every  time  the  old  man  got  his 
pension  money  he  went  on  a  spree.  Joe's  wife  and 
children  has  to  work  out  to  git  enough  to  eat.  When  he 
married  he  built  himself  a  house  on  his  mother's  land  at 
a  cost  of  fifty-six  dollars.  It  was  twenty  feet  long  and 
ten  wide  and  was  all  fixed  so  he  could  put  it  on  wheels 


USHMHrmPSiiiRPf 


Advising  the  ditch  digger 


An  Autumn  Paradise  95 

and  move  it,  if  she  wouldn't  let  him  stay.     He's  still 
livin'  in  that  house  though  he's  added  onto  it  some. 

"Everybody  seems  to  be  astonished  at  the  size  of  the 
ditch  I'm  diggin',  but  my  gosh!  if  you  want  to  see  a 
ditch  that  is  a  ditch  go  out  in  Wood  County.  You 
could  tip  that  there  house  opposite  us  into  it  bottom 
side  up,  and  walk  across  on  a  level.  It  is  right  along  side 
of  the  highway  and  goes  through  a  hill  to  drain  a  big 
track  of  swamp.  I  was  scairt  the  first  time  I  went 
there.     I'd  never  seen  anything  like  it. 

"A  person  lookin'  around  here  in  this  flat  country 
wouldn't  have  any  idea  that  there  was  hills  only  a  few 
miles  south — all  kinds  of  'em.  Among  those  hills  they 
git  a  natural  drainage,  but  here  we  have  to  ditch  good 
and  deep  in  order  to  keep  the  roads  dry.  Years  ago, 
before  the  ditches  were  dug,  the  roads  were  all  mud  and 
water  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  Yes,  sir,  we  had  awful 
roads  when  I  was  a  kid.  There  was  places  where  a 
wagon  would  go  in  clear  up  to  the  ex.  This  was  a  rough 
new  country  in  them  days. 

"I  was  born  and  brought  up  in  a  log  house.  There 
wa'n't  a  frame  house  in  the  country  then.  Now  I  don't 
know  of  but  two  or  three  left.  Most  of  the  land  was 
covered  with  timber,  and  it  was  big  timber,  too — not 
this  little  second  growth  such  as  we  see  at  present. 
There  was  oak,  hickory,  and  maple,  and  a  good  deal  of 
ellum,  and  sometimes  you'd  come  across  a  great  chest- 
nut tree  six  feet  through.  Most  of  the  oak  was  sent 
right  to  England  to  use  for  ship  timber.    The  hickory 


96       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

was  valuable  for  makin'  wagons.  A  few  years  ago 
droves  and  droves  of  men  were  at  work  here  gittin'  out 
hickory  butts.  They  only  saved  the  trunk  up  to  where 
the  limbs  began  to  make  knots. 

"When  the  trees  were  first  cleared  off  I  tell  you  the 
land  was  good.  I've  seen  'em  raise  a  hundred  bushel  of 
shelled  corn  to  the  acre  in  spite  of  the  stumps  standing 
so  thick  you  wouldn't  think  the  ground  could  be 
ploughed  at  all. 

"I  c'n  remember  when  the  first  railroad  was  put 
through  here.  The  cars  were  little  bits  of  things,  not  as 
big  as  our  electric  cars,  and  the  engines  were  no  larger 
than  these  here  donkey  engines.  Instead  of  the  heavy 
steel  rails  we  see  nowadays  they  used  wooden  ones  with 
strap  iron  on  'em  'bout  as  wide  as  my  hand. 

"If  you  was  to  notice  the  names  on  the  mail  boxes 
along  here  you'd  think  you  was  in  Germany.  In  every 
direction  just  as  fur  as  I  know  the  folks  are  German 
and  not  a  Yankee  family  among  'em.  My  mother 
couldn't  speak  a  word  of  English  until  after  she  was 
sixteen  years  old.  But  our  young  people  go  to  English 
schools,  and  they  want  to  be  Americans.  You  can't 
coax  'em  to  talk  German.  They  seem  to  be  ashamed 
of  it. 

"The  farmers  in  this  region  are  generally  pretty  well 
fixed.  They  own  their  places,  and  you  can't  buy  land 
along  the  pike  here  any  less  than  two  hundred  dollars  an 
acre.  This  used  to  be  a  great  wine  country,  but  when 
everybody  goes  into  a  thing  the  price  drops.    You  won't 


An  Autumn  Paradise  97 

see  a  vineyard  now  on  four  farms.  There  ain't  an  acre 
of  grapes  where  there  used  to  be  fifty.  We  did  well  at 
one  time  in  peaches  until  the  trees  begun  to  git  the 
yellows,  and  besides  that  the  St.  Joe  scale  come  along. 
I  grubbed  my  trees  out  and  I  hain't  got  a  single  peach 
tree  left.  It's  the  same  with  lots  of  other  farmers. 
Lately  we've  put  our  land  out  to  corn,  oats,  potatoes 
and  such  stuff.     Where  did  you  say  your  home  was.^*" 

"In  Massachusetts,"  I  replied. 

"I  s'pose  they  garden  to  beat  the  band  there,"  he 
observed.  "That's  what  Mrs.  Burgh  says.  She  has 
visited  in  Massachusetts  a  number  of  times.  I've  had  a 
notion  to  go  in  for  gardening  myself,  but  the  land  where 
my  place  is  ain't  so  good  as  it  is  here.  I  seem  to  have 
more  than  my  share  of  setbacks.  This  year  my  early 
potatoes  are  a  failure.  I  sha'n't  dig  as  many  as  I 
planted.  The  blight  got  'em.  But  my  worst  experience 
was  three  years  ago,  and  that  time  my  neighbors  suf- 
fered as  much  as  I  did.  It  was  the  fifteenth  of  July,  and 
I  was  cultivatin'  corn.  A  cloud  came  up  from  the 
southwest,  and  it  rained  a  little  bit.  Then  a  cloud 
came  up  from  the  opposite  direction,  and  the  two 
clouds  met  right  at  my  place.  Hail  began  to  fall — Gee 
whillikers!  the  stones  were  as  big  as  bantys'  eggs.  I 
stayed  in  a  corner  behind  a  hedge  fence,  and  I  had  hard 
work  to  hold  my  horses.  They  kept  running  their  heads 
into  the  hedge.  It  was  a  big  osage  hedge,  and  you  know 
what  a  prickly  concern  that  is.  They  got  scratched 
some. 


98        Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"My  Lord!  how  the  wind  blew!  But  the  storm  didn't 
last  over  half  an  hour.  It  done  everything  it  could  do 
and  went  away.  Just  before  the  storm  I  had  a  beautiful 
vineyard  hanging  full  of  grapes.  It  would  have  done 
you  good  to  see  'em.  After  the  storm  not  a  bunch  was 
left  except  a  few  that  happened  to  be  protected  by  the 
posts. 

"I  wa'n't  hurt  a  particle  myself,  and  I  drove  the 
horses  to  the  house  to  see  how  my  woman  had  got 
along.  She  was  scairt,  and  so  was  everybody  else.  The 
wind  had  blowed  the  top  off  my  straw  stacks,  tore  some 
boards  off  the  barn  and  scattered  'em  around,  and  I 
guess  we  hadn't  a  chicken-coop  that  wa'n't  turned  over. 
Lots  of  little  chickens  were  killed,  too. 

"The  storm  had  swept  along  toward  Sandusky,  gittin' 
worse  and  worse.  It  tore  everything  all  to  pieces, 
blew  trees  over,  and  stripped  off  the  leaves  and  many  of 
the  branches  of  the  trees  that  continued  standing.  You 
ought  to  have  been  up  to  Sandusky  the  next  day  and 
seen  the  houses  with  their  busted  windows  all  boarded 
up.  Lots  of  houses  didn't  have  one  whole  pane  of  glass 
left.  There  was  hardly  a  telephone  pole  in  two  town- 
ships that  hadn't  been  snapped  off.  You  couldn't  tell 
what  had  been  planted  in  the  cornfields,  and  in  the  oat- 
fields  it  looked  as  if  the  land  had  been  ploughed  and 
dragged.  The  hail  didn't  all  melt  for  four  days.  By 
golly!  where  I  scooped  it  off  my  porch  it  lay  like  a 
snowbank  that  first  day,  two  feet  deep.  The  season 
was  too  fur  along  to  start  the  crops  again,  though  some 


Looking  out  of  Puf-in-ba^ 


An  Autumn  Paradise  99 

sowed  millet  and  turnips.  In  the  fall  we  were  running 
all  over  the  country  to  buy  hay  and  corn  fodder.  There 
were  men  on  mortgaged  or  rented  farms  who  were  so 
discouraged  they  throwed  up  their  places,  and  the  towns 
gave  the  more  destitute  farmers  jobs  on  the  road  to  pay 
their  taxes. 

"It  reminded  me  of  when  t  e  stars  fell  thirty-five  or 
forty  years  ago.  I  was  livin'  out  in  Lucas  County  and 
was  at  a  revival  one  evening  up  at  Swan  Crick  Church. 
Just  as  we  were  leavin',  at  the  close  of  the  service,  it 
looked  like  every  star  In  heaven  was  comin'  down. 
But  they  didn't  fall  all  to  once.  There  were  showers  of 
'em,  sometimes  flyin'  in  one  direction  and  sometimes 
in  another,  with  pauses  between  for  nearly  an  hour. 
They  made  a  noise,  too — a  kind  of  roarin'  noise  that 
sounded  like  thunder,  or  like  a  freight  train.  We  was 
all  scairt,  specially  the  young  people,  and  some  kneeled 
right  down  side  of  the  road  and  commenced  to  pray. 
We  thought  the  world  was  comin'  to  an  end,  and  it 
wa'n't  just  the  people  that  was  scairt;  the  horses  and 
cows  in  the  fields  ran  away,  and  a  good  many  got  out. 
Everybody  was  huntin'  cattle  the  next  mornin'. 

"Now,  if  you're  goin'  down  the  road,"  said  the  ditch- 
digger  when  I  rose  preparatory  to  leaving,  "you  notice 
the  big  house  with  piazzas  all  around  it  about  half  a  mile 
from  here.  Jacob  Goerz  lives  there.  He's  rich,  and  yet 
he's  never  done  a  day's  work  in  his  life.  He's  rich  and 
I'm  poor.  It's  luck  I  tell  you  makes  the  difference — sure 
thing  it  is.     You  can  go  there  and  borrow  whatever 


lOO      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

amount  of  money  you  want  any  day,  If  you  can  give 
good  security.  He  don't  know  what  he  is  worth,  I 
guess.  He's  a  great  friend  of  mine,  and  he  told  me  how 
he  got  his  start  at  a  time  when  he  was  as  poor  as  I  am. 
Him  and  his  wife  drove  around  the  country  buyin' 
cattle,  and  they  stopped  at  a  farm  where  the  man  was 
discouraged  and  wanted  to  sell  out.  Mr.  Goerz  didn't 
want  the  place,  but  when  the  man  said  he'd  sell  for  half 
what  he'd  paid  for  it  the  year  before,  Mr.  Goerz  agreed 
to  buy.  'Now,'  said  he,  'you  and  your  wife  go  in  the 
house  and  carry  out  every  dud  you've  got  in  there,  and 
I'll  take  possession  at  once.' 

"So  the  old  owner  moved  out,  and  he  moved  in;  but 
when  he  looked  around  his  farm  and  see  how  stony  the 
land  was,  he  thought  he  was  beat.  Perhaps  he  would 
have  been,  only  that  in  a  short  time  some  successful 
oil  wells  were  put  down  there.  They  made  him  inde- 
pendent rich.  After  a  while  he  bought  this  place  here — 
six  hundred  acres.  We  all  thought  he  was  foolish  to  buy 
so  much  and  pay  the  price  he  did.  But  he  set  right 
down  and  didn't  do  a  darn  thing  except  to  sell  the 
timber  off,  and  that  brought  back  all  he'd  paid.  You 
call  on  him.  He'll  use  you  awful  good.  You  can't  name 
a  thing  there  is  in  the  saloons  he  ain't  got  in  his  cellar, 
and  he'll  give  it  to  you,  too." 

The  ditch-digger  seemed  to  feel  that  this  attraction 
would  prove  irresistible,  but  I  did  not  call  on  the  man 
with  the  well-stocked  cellar.  Later  in  the  day  I  re- 
turned to  Sandusky  and  went  by  boat  to  South  Bass 


An  Autumn  Paradise  lOi 

Island.  It  was  from  Put-in-Bay  of  this  island  that 
Commodore  Perry's  fleet  went  forth  to  fight  the  Battle 
of  Lake  Erie  in  1813.  The  island  is  now  a  summer 
resort.  It  has  rocky  limestone  shores  chiseled  by  the 
waves  into  grottoes  and  many  fantastic  pillars  and  cor- 
rugations, and  back  inland  is  a  good-sized  cave  said  to 
have  been  discovered  by  Perry.  It  was  even  affirmed  to 
me  that  he  and  his  men  had  lived  in  the  cave. 

At  the  time  of  the  battle  Perry  was  only  twenty-eight 
years  old,  and  his  antagonist,  Barclay,  was  not  much 
over  thirty.  They  had  gotten  their  fleets  ready  with 
the  greatest  difficulty,  and  the  British  delayed  meeting 
their  opponents  as  long  as  they  could.  At  length,  how- 
ever, Barclay  saw  no  choice  but  to  fight  immediately, 
and  he  sailed  to  meet  the  American  squadron,  which  was 
anchored  in  the  little  harbor  of  South  Bass  Island.  His 
ships  numbered  six,  and  Perry  had  nine.  The  number 
of  men  on  each  side  was  about  four  hundred  and  fifty, 
yet  Perry  not  only  had  the  advantage  in  the  number  of 
ships,  but  these  averaged  larger  than  his  opponent's 
and  his  guns  could  throw  twice  as  heavy  a  broadside. 

At  daybreak  of  September  10,  Perry's  lookout  dis- 
covered the  approaching  British  fleet,  and  the  American 
ships  at  once  weighed  anchor,  ran  up  their  sails  and 
stood  toward  the  enemy.  The  wind  was  so  light  that 
both  sides  found  difficulty  in  getting  into  position,  but 
by  noon  they  were  drawn  up  for  battle.  Barclay  com- 
manded the  Detroit^  and  opposite  him  was  Perry's 
flagship,  the  Lawrence.    The  firing  opened  at  long  range, 


102      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

and  that  of  the  British  was  so  destructive  Perry  decided 
to  set  more  sail  and  passed  the  word  by  hail  of  trumpet 
for  the  whole  line  to  close  up  and  advance  nearer  the 
enemy.  For  two  hours  the  battle  raged,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  the  Lawrence  was  seriously  disabled.  The 
hull  was  shattered,  the  rigging  shot  away,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  crew  was  killed  or  wounded.  Perry 
himself  fired  the  last  effective  heavy  gun  assisted  only 
by  the  purser  and  chaplain. 

He  now  allowed  the  Lawrence  to  drop  from  her  posi- 
tion, and  took  the  desperate  chance  of  venturing  into  a 
rowboat,  in  company  with  his  brother  and  four  seamen, 
and  transferring  his  flag  to  the  Niagara^  which  had  been 
at  some  distance  from  the  main  engagement  and  was 
comparatively  fresh.  He  reached  the  Niagara  without 
mishap  and  again  bore  up  to  oppose  the  Detroit.  His 
other  vessels  aided  in  the  attack  and  they  poured  into 
the  Detroit  such  volleys  of  shot  that  she  soon  became 
completely  disabled  and  unmanageable.  Within  half 
an  hour  the  British  commander  was  forced  to  strike  his 
flag  and  surrender.  On  both  sides  the  battle  had  been 
hard  fought,  and  the  loss  of  life  was  very  heavy.  Four- 
fifths  of  the  men  on  the  Lawrence  were  killed  or  wounded 
and  Perry  himself  was  the  only  officer  unharmed. 
When  the  ceremony  of  surrender  was  over,  Perry  tore 
off  the  back  of  an  old  letter,  and  using  his  hat  for  a 
writing-desk,  wrote  to  General  Harrison  his  famous 
dispatch,  "We  have  met  the  enemy  and  they  are  ours; 
two  ships,  two  brigs,  one  schooner,  and  one  sloop. " 


An  Autumn  Paradise  103 

Note. — If  one  is  in  Sandusky  in  autumn  a  most  pleasureable 
excursion  can  be  made  to  the  peach  orchards  of  Catawba  Island. 
Peach  raising  is  a  somewhat  prosaic  industry  the  rest  of  the  year. 
All  the  farming  region  around  is  prosperously  attractive  and  in 
Sandusky  itself  there  is  the  fish  business  and  varied  shipping  to 
furnish  interest.  To  the  traveller,  however,  the  scene  of  Perry's 
naval  battle  furnishes  the  chief  attraction.  Put-in-Bay  on  South 
Bass  Island  a  few  miles  out  in  the  lake  should  be  visited  to  get  as 
near  as  possible  to  where  the  encounter  occurred.  The  island  itself 
is  a  summer  resort  with  a  good  deal  of  charm. 


VI 


FROM   LAKE    ERIE   TO    LAKE    HURON 

IT  was  midnight.  I  was  on  a  big  lake  steamer  that 
was  ploughing  its  way  northward  from  Sandusky 
to  Detroit.  There  were  drowsy  passengers  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  vessel,  while  down  below  was  a  fra- 
grant cargo  of  grapes  and  peaches  to  which  the  ship's 
employees  helped  themselves  rather  freely,  for  it  was 
not  much  trouble  to  force  a  way  through  the  frail  cover- 
ings of  the  baskets.  We  had  entered  the  Detroit  River. 
The  night  was  still,  and  the  limpid  waters  of  the  broad 
channel  were  unruffled  by  the  faintest  breeze.  Our 
vessel  slipped  along  between  shores  brightened  by 
frequent  electric  lights,  and  presently  had  made  fast 
at  our  pier.  Then  I  started  out  to  get  a  lodging-place 
in  the  great,  and  to  me  strange,  city.  But  at  hotel  after 
hotel  I  was  met  with  the  information  that  all  the  rooms 
were  taken,  and  likewise  every  cot  that  could  be 
crowded  in.  A  state  fair  was  in  progress  in  the  town, 
and  the  hotels  could  not  accommodate  the  swarm  of 
visitors;  but  they  were  doing  their  best.  In  the  hall- 
ways men  were  sleeping  on  blankets,  and  in  the  hotel 
offices  each  chair  was  occupied  by  some  person  sitting 
out  the  long  hours  till  morning.     It  was  affirmed  that 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  105 

some  unfortunate  seekers-after-lodgings  would  be 
obliged  to  walk  the  streets  the  entire  night. 

I  concluded  I  must  take  anything  that  offered,  and  at 
last  I  went  into  a  shabby  little  fruit  store  that  had  a 
card  in  the  window  advertising  rooms.  This  time  I  got 
a  favorable  reply,  and  the  Italian  in  charge  led  the  way 
to  a  large  upstairs  room  where  he  lit  a  dim  and  smoky 
lamp.  There  were  three  beds  in  the  apartment.  These 
nearly  filled  the  floor  space,  and  each  had  an  occupant. 
My  landlord  roused  one  of  the  sleepers,  and  told  him  he 
was  to  share  the  bed  with  me.  At  that  the  occupant 
sat  up  and  began  to  swear.  So  the  landlord  appealed 
to  the  next  man.  This  individual  was  either  too  amiable 
or  too  sleepy  to  object,  and  the  landlord  left  me  and 
returned  to  his  shop. 

The  room  was  grimy  and  ill-odored,  and  both  win- 
dows were  tight  shut.  I  opened  the  one  next  to  my  bed 
and  slept  in  my  clothes,  or  lay  awake  in  them,  and  re- 
joiced that  I  had  first  chance  at  the  air  which  drifted  in. 
My  room-mates  stirred  uneasily  from  time  to  time, 
and  the  inhospitable  man  in  the  middle  bed  who  had 
spurned  my  company  occasionally  broke  into  a  hearty 
round  of  profanity  concerning  the  apartment  and  the 
bed,  and  went  through  some  acrobatics  as  if  he  were 
fighting  vermin.  I,  too,  began  to  have  itchy  sensations, 
but  whether  they  were  merely  an  echo  of  the  other 
man's  uneasiness  or  had  some  real  foundation  I  was 
uncertain.  So  I  lay  as  still  as  I  could  hoping  the 
creatures,  if  any  there  were,  would  not  become  aware 


lo6     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

of  my  presence;  and  when  the  laggard  dawn  came  I 
made  haste  to  escape. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  my  experiences  in  discovering 
Detroit  were  as  strenuous  in  their  way  as  those  of  the 
early  explorers  and  settlers  of  the  region. 

Certain  French  priests  visited  the  vicinity  in  1670, 
and  nine  years  later  La  Salle  sailed  up  the  river  in  the 
Griffon.  He  was  much  impressed  by  the  attractiveness 
of  the  country  on  either  side.  There  were  fine  open 
fields,  walnut  and  chestnut  groves,  and  at  a  little  dis- 
tance lofty  forests.  Flocks  of  turkeys  and  swans  circled 
about,  and  from  the  deck  of  the  vessel  herds  of  deer 
could  be  seen  roaming  the  meadows.  All  the  voyagers 
united  in  praising  this  beautiful  spot. 

A  settlement  was  begun  by  the  French  in  1701  on  the 
site  of  the  modern  Detroit.  The  first  thought  was  for 
defense,  and  a  palisade  was  promptly  erected  to  inclose 
the  little  village.  At  first  the  colony  did  not  thrive,  and 
there  were  times  when  it  was  so  weak  its  abandonment 
was  contemplated.  The  most  strenuous  and  distressing 
experience  came  in  1763,  shortly  after  French  supremacy 
on  the  Great  Lakes  had  given  way  to  that  of  the  English. 
In  May  of  the  year  mentioned  there  was  a  sudden  Indian 
uprising  under  the  leadership  of  the  famous  Pontiac. 
So  widespread  was  the  conspiracy,  and  so  secretly  and 
energetically  were  Pontiac's  plans  carried  out  that 
within  ten  weeks  after  the  first  blow  was  struck  not  a 
single  post  except  Detroit  remained  in  British  hands 
west  of  Niagara.    The  Detroit  fort  was  garrisoned  by 


On  the  deck  of  a  sailing  vessel 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  107 

eight  officers  and  one  hundred  and  twenty  men 
under  the  command  of  Major  Gladwin.  About  forty 
fur  traders  were  at  the  settlement,  besides  the  Canadian 
residents  whose  white  cottages  lined  either  bank  of  the 
river.  Within  the  stockade  were  about  five  score  small 
houses,  a  group  of  barracks,  a  council  house,  and  a 
church.  The  stockade  consisted  of  a  triple  row  of 
pickets  twenty-iive  feet  high,  and  above  each  gateway 
was  a  block  house.  The  gates  were  closed  at  sunset, 
but  a  narrow  wicket  in  one  of  the  gateways,  was  kept 
open  until  nine  o'clock.  There  were  three  small  cannon 
in  the  fort,  which  were,  however,  badly  mounted,  and 
better  calculated  to  terrify  the  Indians  by  the  noise  they 
made  than  by  any  actual  damage  they  might  do. 

Tradition  affirms  that  on  the  day  before  the  one  set 
for  the  destruction  of  the  garrison,  Major  Gladwin  was 
informed  of  the  plot  by  an  Indian  maiden  in  gratitude 
for  kindness  he  had  shown  her.  At  any  rate,  though 
Pontiac  in  person  directed  the  attack,  it  failed,  and  then 
began  a  weary  siege.  No  white  man  could  venture  in 
daylight  to  step  outside  the  little  wicket  or  to  show  his 
head  at  a  porthole  without  fear  of  Indian  bullets. 
For  weeks  every  officer  and  soldier  was  on  guard  night 
and  day,  and  slept  in  his  clothes  with  his  gun  beside  him. 
They  might  have  been  starved  out,  had  not  a  few 
friendly  Canadians  smuggled  in  supplies.  Some  boats 
dispatched  from  Niagara  to  their  aid  were  captured. 
Three  men  belonging  to  the  boats  excaped  to  the  fort, 


io8      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

but  the  other  members  of  the  expedition  were  massacred 
in  the  Indians'  camp. 

However,  one  of  two  small  vessels  that  belonged  to 
the  fort  slipped  away  down  the  river,  went  to  Niagara, 
and  succeeded  in  returning  and  landing  fifty  men  at  the 
fort,  together  with  much-needed  provisions  and  ammu- 
nition. One  night  the  attention  of  the  sentries  was 
attracted  by  a  mass  of  flames  shooting  up  into  the  sky 
to  the  northward.  The  flames  grew  brighter  and  came 
nearer,  and  the  sentries  presently  saw  drifting  down  the 
river  a  huge  fire-float,  made  of  four  bateaux  filled  with 
fagots,  birch-bark,  and  tar.  This  had  been  prepared  by 
the  Indians  with  the  intention  that  it  should  destroy 
the  two  schooners  which  were  in  the  river  opposite  the 
fort.  But  the  vessels  were  so  anchored  that  it  was  easy 
for  them  to  swing  aside  out  of  harm's  way,  and  the 
blazing  raft  floated  harmlessly  by,  lighting  up  the  fort 
and  the  shores  till  it  burned  down  to  the  water's  edge. 

After  the  siege  had  continued  about  three  months, 
reinforcements  to  the  number  of  two  hundred  and 
sixty  men  arrived.  The  newcomers  were  eager  to  go 
forth  against  the  Indians,  and  when  Major  Gladwin 
opposed  such  an  attempt  they  declared  they  would 
either  make  the  attack  or  leave.  So  a  reluctant  consent 
was  given,  and  the  troops  sallied  out  at  two  o'clock  one 
night  to  surprise  the  Indian  camp.  But  the  savages, 
who  had  been  forewarned  by  some  of  the  Canadians, 
ambushed  the  troops  as  they  were  crossing  a  bridge  that 
spanned  a  little  stream  a  mile  and  a  half  above  the  fort. 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  109 

and  in  the  desperate  fighting  that  ensued  one  hundred 
and  fifty  nine  men  were  killed  or  wounded.  The  victory 
of  Bloody  Run,  as  the  stream  was  ever  afterward  called, 
restored  Pontiac's  confidence  and  brought  him  many 
accessions.  But  help  that  he  expected  from  the  French 
did  not  come,  his  warriors  presently  began  deserting, 
and  he  was  forced  to  abandon  the  siege.  It  had  lasted 
five  months. 

The  most  ^  vigorous  fighting  that  occurred  in  this 
region,  in  the  years  that  have  elapsed  since,  was  on 
Canadian  territory  up  the  river  Thames.  On  the  banks 
of  this  stream,  a  few  miles  above  Chatham,  the  Ameri- 
cans engaged  the  British  and  Indians,  in  October,  1813, 
and  the  great  chief  Tecumseh  was  killed.  Tecumseh 
was  a  dreaded  enemy,  and  in  the  hour  of  triumph  the 
American  soldiers  disgraced  themselves  by  the  ferocity 
and  barbarity  with  which  they  treated  his  lifeless  body. 
Long  afterward,  it  is  said  that  some  of  them  used  to 
boast  of  having  razor  strops  made  of  his  skin. 

The  fine  farming  district  along  the  Thames  recog- 
nizes Detroit  as  its  greatest  market  and  trading  center, 
in  spite  of  the  tariff  barrier.  "Yes,""  said  a  Chatham 
man  with  whom  I  talked,  "and  the  railroads  generally 
run  excursion  trains  every  Thursday  in  summer  to 
encourage  us  to  go  to  the  city.  Often,  I  don't  suppose 
it's  any  real  advantage  to  trade  there,  but  people  fancy 
they  can  do  better  because  it's  such  a  big  place.  I 
know  though  that  it's  worth  while  to  rig  up  in  Detroit 
if  you  want  tools,  because  the  American  tools  are  high- 


no      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

grade  and  the  merchants  there  take  off  from  the  price 
the  amount  of  the  duty.  They  pay  that  themselves  Hke. 
The  Americans  are  great  people  for  such  schemes.  Con- 
siderable smuggling  is  done,  too.  Lots  of  ladies  go  to 
Detroit  lean  and  come  out  fat,  they're  wearing  so  much 
extra.  Men  would  like  to  do  the  same  thing,  but  they 
can't  stow  away  so  much  in  their  clothing.  People  go 
down  there  wearing  an  old  pair  of  shoes  that  will  hardly 
hold  together.  They'll  buy  a  new  pair,  put  'em  on,  and 
leave  the  old  ones.  One  winter  day  I  see  the  customs 
officers  ketch  an  old  Jew  who  was  comin'  along  with 
three  or  four  pairs  of  pants  on.  'But  it's  cold,'  he  says. 
'A  man  may  wear  as  much  clothes  as  he  likes  in  de 
vinter  time.'  " 

Later,  when  I  was  stopping  at  the  French  village 
of  Belle  River  on  the  shores  of  Lake  St.  Clair,  I  made 
further  inquiries  about  smuggling.  The  day  was  dark 
and  misty,  and  I  could  hear  the  hoarse-voiced  vessels 
greeting  each  other  in  the  fog  far  away  across  the  lake 
where  was  the  channel  of  traffic.  Quite  a  group  of 
people  had  gathered  on  the  piazza  of  the  little  hotel 
where  I  lodged.  Some  were  connected  with  the  hotel, 
others  were  loitering  to  and  from  the  bar-room,  and 
still  others  had  taken  refuge  from  the  foggy  precipita- 
tion. I  chatted  with  an  intelligent  farmer.  "There's 
all  sorts  of  smuggling  boats  slipping  back  and  forth," 
he  said,  "canoes,  yawls,  gasolene  launches,  and  even 
steam  yachts.  They  come  over  here  and  load  up  with 
poultry  and  other  farm  produce  and  then  get  away. 


On  the  hotel  piazza 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  in 

It's  profitable,  if  they  ain't  ketched.  A  Belle  River  man 
tried  smuggling  fish  a  while  ago,  but  the  customs 
officers  got  onto  the  racket,  and  he  was  fined  three 
hundred  dollars.  Most  smuggling  boats  go  across  in  the 
night.  Coal  oil  is  one  thing  they  smuggle  from  the  other 
side.  A  rowboat  will  go  into  some  little  crick  and  meet 
a  team  that  has  brought  three  barrels  of  oil.  They  put 
two  barrels  in  the  boat  and  tow  one  behind.  But  if  the 
officers  ketch  'em  the  team,  boat,  and  everything  are 
taken,  and  they're  fined  besides.  A  man  has  got  to  be 
pretty  good  and  sharp  to  be  a  successful  smuggler. 

"Sometimes  men'll  come  over  here  in  a  launch,  hire  a 
team,  and  go  for  a  ride.  They'll  stop  at  the  farms  and 
buy  perhaps  a  hundred  dozen  of  eggs  and  other  things 
in  similar  big  quantities,  and  say  these  are  for  their 
friends,  but  of  course  we  know  better.  In  the  afternoon 
they  are  back  to  their  launch  and  go  away  across  the 
lake.  They  put  the  launch  in  the  boathouse  and  nobody 
over  there  notices  anything  suspicious,  because  they 
don't  unload  until  after  dark.  That  is  done  every  day. 
We  have  a  custom-house  man  in  our  village,  but  he 
can't  be  everywhere  at  the  same  time,  and  he  don't  look 
for  smugglers;  for  arresting  'em  ain't  a  pleasant  busi- 
ness. On  the  contrary  it's  sometimes  dangerous.  How- 
ever, if  he  sees  'em  at  it  he  has  to  do  his  duty." 

The  hotel  was  near  one  end  of  the  chief  village  street. 
Just  to  the  south  was  a  bridge  that  crossed  the  stream 
to  which  the  village  was  indebted  for  its  name,  and  on 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  little  river  was  pasturage. 


112      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

I  could  see  some  cows  loitering  there,  and  occasionally 
one  wandered  over  into  the  village,  but  was  promptly 
driven  back  by  an  alert  collie  dog.  The  street  was 
straight  and  wide  and  long,  and  it  was  lined  with  trees, 
though  not  many  of  these  were  well  grown.  There  were 
a  number  of  stores  and  shops  among  the  dwellings,  but 
the  only  conspicuous  building  was  the  church.  That 
was  large,  with  a  lofty  spire  surmounted  by  a  gilt  cross. 
It  illustrated  quite  forcibly  how  much  the  monotony 
of  a  landscape  is  relieved  by  the  presence  of  a  steeple. 
The  church  spires  furnish  a  very  valuable  accent. 

The  people  were  apt  to  be  swarthy  in  complexion, 
which  a  fellow-sojourner  at  the  hotel  explained  by  say- 
ing, "Their  ancestors  come  here  early,  and  there's  a 
good  sprinkling  of  Indian  into  'em."  He  added  that 
they  were  unprogressive  and  narrow  in  their  interests, 
and  that  they  read  little  and  got  their  information  from 
hearsay;  also  that  the  women  were  inclined  to  use 
swear  words  when  they  wished  to  be  emphatic,  and 
were  chiefly  interested  "in  the  style  they  can  carry  in 
powdering  up  and  dressing." 

Most  of  the  dwellings  were  small  and  looked  rather 
exposed  and  dreary.  Clear,  level  farm  fields  lay  behind 
the  village,  but  when  one  got  a  mile  or  two  back  there 
began  to  be  orchards  and  patches  of  woodland.  The 
hamlet  was  well  supplied  with  hotels.  There  were  four, 
but  these  were  lodging-places  only  incidentally.  Their 
chief  purpose  was  to  sell  spirituous  liquors. 

It  was   surprising  to  see   how  numerous   were  the 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  1 13 

visitors  to  the  bar  at  the  hotel  where  I  lodged,  and  they 
seemed  to  represent  all  grades  of  society.  One  evening 
I  sat  in  the  hotel  office  chatting  with  some  of  the  fre- 
quenters of  the  place — roughly  dressed  young  farmers 
or  tradesmen's  employees  for  the  most  part.  Beyond  a 
partition  was  the  bar,  where  we  could  hear  the  clink  of 
glasses,  and  noisy  conversation.  The  only  one  of  my 
companions  not  a  villager  was  a  man  who  went  through 
the  region  selling  a  liniment  that  was  more  especially 
for  horses  and  cattle,  but  was  good  besides  for  all  sorts 
of  human  sprains,  cuts,  and  bruises.  He  left  at  least 
one  bottle  at  each  farmhouse,  and  collected  a  year  later 
for  whatever  was  used.  This  plan  had  made  permanent 
customers  of  the  entire  countryside. 

I  sat  near  the  door  so  I  could  set  it  ajar  a  little  when 
the  atmosphere  became  unbearably  rank  with  tobacco 
smoke.  At  intervals  I  could  hear  the  rain  falling. 
"You'll  see  the  people  laughin'  now  after  this  rain," 
remarked  one  of  my  companions  who  was  a  brick  mason. 
"They  want  to  get  some  living  for  next  year.  So  now 
they  will  put  in  their  wheat.  It  has  been  too  dry 
before. " 

"I  expect  I  shall  have  hard  driving  for  a  day  or  two," 
commented  the  medicine  peddler,  "but  my  golly! 
spring  is  the  time  for  mud  here.  In  places  the  roads  are 
so  clayey  you  can't  go  on  'em  when  the  frost  is  coming 
out.  The  clay  rolls  right  up  on  your  wheels  and  brings 
you  to  a  standstill." 

"Our  land  is  naturally  swampy, "  said  one  of  the  other 


114     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

men,  "but  in  the  last  few  years  we've  drained  it  so  we 
get  pretty  good  crops.  If  you  want  to  see  fine  farms 
though,  you  go  farther  back  from  the  lake  to  where  the 
Scotch  have  settled." 

"The  Scotch  are  good  farmers,"  observed  the  medi- 
cine man,  "and  they  make  money,  but  they're  too  close 
fisted.  They'll  go  fifty  miles  for  the  sake  of  getting  a 
thing  a  cent  cheaper,  without  taking  no  account  of  the 
time  they  lose." 

"We  used  to  have  to  make  a  living  by  going  to  the 
woods,"  said  the  previous  speaker.  "We  didn't  need  to 
go  far.  It  was  all  woods  here  twenty-five  years  ago. 
The  pines  were  cut  first,  and  those  old  white  pines  were 
immense.  Their  tops  towered  up  above  all  the  other 
trees.  Oak  and  walnut  were  cut  next.  Now  they  even 
get  out  ellum.    They  use  it  for  making  furniture." 

"I  saw  a  man  come  into  the  village  this  afternoon 
with  a  double-barreled  gun  under  his  arm,"  said  I,  "and 
he  was  carrying  a  bird  he  had  shot.  It  was  a  duck,  I 
think." 

"No,  it  couldn't  have  been  a  duck,"  observed  the 
mason.  "  If  it  had  been  he  wouldn't  have  let  it  be  seen. 
This  is  out-of-season  for  ducks.  He'd  have  sneaked  it 
in  on  the  quiet,  and  if  in  spite  of  that  you  happened  to 
see  it  he'd  say  he  found  it  dead.  What  you  saw  must 
have  been  a  hell-diver.  It's  body  looks  like  a  duck's, 
but  its  legs  are  long,  and  they're  so  far  back  it  can't 
walk  on  dry  land.  It  falls  right  over.  You  can't  often 
get  one.     Every  time  you  shoot  it  dives,  and  the  chances 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  115 

are  it  is  so  quick  your  ammunition  is  wasted.  They're 
not  much  good  anyway.  The  flesh  has  a  fishy  taste, 
but  some  eat  'em.  We've  got  hunters  here  who'll  eat 
shikepokes — those  broad-winged,  long-legged  beggars." 

The  medicine  man  inquired  if  there  was  any  fishing 
in  the  little  river.  "Yes,"  replied  the  mason,  "fellows 
come  from  Detroit  in  launches  and  go  up  the  stream 
back  of  the  hotel,  and  every  time  they  ketch  a  fish  they 
bring  it  in  here  to  show  it  and  get  a  drink,  even  if  it 
ain't  more'n  two  inches  long.  If  they  ketch  thirty  or 
forty  that  means  some  business. 

"The  river  is  more  valuable  to  us  for  trapping  than 
for  fishing.  But  the  best  place  for  trapping  is  a  big 
marsh  in  the  south  part  of  the  county.  The  farmers  go 
there  in  early  November  and  camp  around  the  edge  till 
things  freeze  up  solid,  and  they  go  again  in  March  and 
April.  They  rent  the  privilege.  Some  days  they  make 
twenty-five  dollars.  Usually  about  four  men  go  in 
company.  They  build  a  shack  and  set  their  traps. 
There's  thousands  of  acres  in  the  marsh.  The  men  go 
about  in  a  boat  which  they  punt  through  the  cat-tails 
and  grass.  Where  they  set  a  trap  they  mark  the  spot 
with  a  rag  tied  to  a  reed.  Last  year  mushrat  hides  sold 
for  from  seventy-five  cents  to  a  dollar,  but  a  few  years 
ago  we  only  got  ten  cents  or  a  shilling.  They  tan  'em 
to  make  all  sorts  of  deerskins  out  of  'em.  Today  you 
never  know  what  you're  buying.  A  woman  judges  by 
the  price  whether  she's  getting  a  fine  thing  or  not. 
Show  her  one  hat  for  six  dollars,  and  one  for  fifteen, 


Ii6      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

and  the  fifteen  dollar  one  will  be  her  choice  every  time, 
though  it  may  be  just  the  same  as  the  other.  It's  the 
price  what  does  the  selling. 

"We're  getting  eight  and  ten  dollars  for  mink  hides. 
They're  small  for  so  much  money.  A  mink  is  slim  and 
long  and  not  much  bigger  than  a  mushrat.  They're  sly 
creatures.  It  ain't  easy  to  ketch  one.  A  trapper  who 
gets  half  a  dozen  in  a  season  thinks  he's  doin'  well. 
Once  in  a  while  one  gets  caught  in  a  mushrat  trap. 
That's  when  he's  in  a  hurry  chasing  a  mushrat.  They 
like  mushrats  to  eat,  and  they  like  chickens,  too." 

"That  reminds  me  of  when  I  was  a  boy,"  said  the 
medicine  peddler.  "I  heard  a  deuce  of  a  racket  among 
the  chickens  one  night,  and  in  the  morning  we  found 
a  weasel  had  got  twenty-two  of  'em.  By  hunting 
around  I  found  his  hole,  and  I  waited  there  with  a  club 
until  he  poked  his  head  out.  Then  I  struck,  and  I 
didn't  think  I  could  possibly  miss  him,  but  my  club 
only  hit  the  spot  where  he'd  been.  Talk  about  bein' 
fooled — I  didn't  feel  bigger'n  a  pin." 

"A  man  has  to  be  pretty  handy  even  with  a  gun  to 
kill  a  weasel,"  affirmed  the  mason,  "but  no  matter  what 
you  do  the  weasel  will  keep  comin'  up  to  peek  out  of  his 
hole  and  see  if  you're  lookin'  at  him  until  you  go  away 
or  he's  killed. 

"Mushrats  are  sly  in  their  way,  too.  If  the  rat  can 
get  out  of  water  with  the  trap  he'll  gnaw  his  leg  off. 
Many  a  time  I've  found  a  leg  in  a  trap  in  the  morning, 
and  I've  caught  mushrats  that  have  lost  a  leg — yes,  and 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  117 

those  that  have  lost  two  legs.  They're  a  night  animal, 
but  in  the  spring  the  high  water  drives  'em  out  of  their 
holes,  and  you  see  'em  swimming  around  in  the  daytime. 

"This  was  a  lot  livelier  place  when  the  hunting  was 
good,  and  when  there  was  lumbering  in  the  woods 
around  here.  The  young  fellows  don't  have  much  liking 
for  farm  life  as  things  are  now,  and  nearly  all  of  'em  go 
to  the  city  because  they  think  there's  lots  of  fun  there. 
Besides,  there  ain't  money  enough  in  farming  to  suit 
'em.  They  feel  sure  they  can  make  a  bigger  wad  else- 
where. I  was  one  of  those  guys  myself.  If  I'd  stayed 
on  the  old  farm  I'd  have  been  worth  five  thousand 
dollars  at  least.  Now  I'm  workin'  for  wages.  I've  got 
my  day  ahead  of  me,  and  that's  all.  But  I  like  to  work 
ten  hours  a  day  and  then  be  free.  No  wonder  farm  help 
is  scarce,  when  the  hired  man  is  expected  to  do  chores 
after  supper  every  day,  and  has  also  to  put  in  some  time 
Sundays.  Then,  too,  the  farmers  don't  like  to  see  a 
hired  man  eat  very  much,  and  if  he  drinks  two  glasses 
of  milk  at  a  meal  they  charge  him  for  one. 

"The  girls  have  the  same  ideas  about  the  country  as 
the  boys.  They  want  to  work  in  the  stores  and  fac- 
tories. The  only  way  to  prevent  'em  from  leavin'  home 
is  to  keep  'em  barefoot.  Once  they  get  a  good  pair  of 
shoes  they'll  walk  away  rather  than  stay  here.  Often 
they  go  to  the  bad  in  the  city,  and  so  do  the  boys.  Very 
likely  a  fellow  gets  wages  that  look  large  to  him,  but 
unless  he's  a  good  old  saver,  there's  nothing  left  after 
he's  paid  his  board  and  other  expenses — some  necessary 


ii8      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

and  a  good  many  not.  A  fellow  who  never  used  tobacco 
before  he  went  away  will  come  back  in  six  months 
smokin'  cigarets.  The  majority  become  bums.  They 
strike  a  rough  gang,  and  if  there's  bad  holes  anywhere 
in  the  city  they  get  into  'em. 

"The  fellows  who  stay  in  the  country  have  their 
dissipations  and  extravagances,  too.  Lots  of  'em  get  a 
rubber-tired  rig,  and  run  around  in  it,  but  that's  com- 
paratively harmless.  Some  parents  expect  to  safe- 
guard their  children  by  givin'  'em  an  education.  Of 
course,  the  children  must  have  some  schooling;  but 
send  'em  to  the  high  school,  and  they're  no  good  any- 
way. A  few  keep  their  heads  level,  but  most  get  in  a 
pretty  fast  gang. 

"Belle  River  has  been  dull  enough  for  a  long  time, 
but  lately  it's  had  another  setback.  We  always  have 
played  ball  on  Sunday  until  this  year  the  priest  put  a 
stop  to  it  because  the  players  didn't  come  to  mass.  It's 
only  a  poor  game  we  can  play  without  the  Sunday 
practice.  Several  of  the  players  in  the  big  leagues  down 
in  the  States  have  come  from  here.  Yes,  this  town 
has  been  famous  for  producing  the  best  ball-players  and 
fighters. " 

His  final  statement  was  almost  drowned  by  a  clam- 
orous uproar  in  the  bar-room.  For  some  time  we  had 
heard  an  increasingly  loud-voiced  dispute  going  on 
there.  But  now  it  culminated  in  a  struggle  between  the 
bar-tender  and  a  customer.  They  grappled,  and  with 
ominous  vigor  and  fierceness  slammed  and  thrashed 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  119 

about  until  the  bar-tender  got  his  man  to  the  door  and 
threw  him  out  into  the  night. 

Then  the  victor,  perspiring  and  ruffled,  came  into 
the  office  and  explained  that  he  had  trusted  the  man  for 
drink  some  time  before,  and  they  had  disagreed  about 
the  amount  that  was  due.  He  soon  returned  to  the  bar, 
and  one  of  our  company  remarked:  "They  didn't  treat 
the  fellow  right.  Either  they  ought  to  have  kept  his 
head  clear  by  not  letting  him  have  so  much,  or  they 
ought  to  have  given  him  enough  so  he'd  been  helpless." 

I  returned  to  the  banks  of  the  Detroit  River  the  next 
day.  The  waterway  is  twetity-seven  miles  long  and  has 
an  average  width  of  a  mile.  Through  this  channel 
passes  the  overflow  of  the  three  great  lakes  above  in  a 
deep  steady  stream,  unbroken  by  rapids  or  eddies. 
From  year's  end  to  year's  end  its  height  is  practically 
stationary,  but  a  northern  gale  will  drive  the  Lake 
Huron  water  into  it  and  cause  it  to  rise  a  few  inches, 
and  a  gale  from  the  opposite  direction  causes  a  corres- 
ponding fall. 

No  other  of  the  world's  waterways  is  the  scene  of 
such  an  amount  of  commerce.  Most  of  the  freight 
passes  down  on  Its  way  to  the  cities  of  the  east.  Only 
about  a  third  as  much  goes  in  the  other  direction.  Coal 
is  the  principal  item  in  the  up-bound  traffic,  while  the 
southward  loads  consist  largely  of  Iron  ore,  grain,  flour, 
and  lumber.  The  fleet  of  vessels  on  the  lakes  Is  enor- 
mous. They  themselves  burn  yearly  no  less  than  three 
million  tons  of  coal — enough  to  heat  every  home  in  two 


120      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

such  cities  as  Chicago  for  a  twelve-month.  The  monster 
freighters  are  quite  impressive,  moving  so  steadily  and 
swiftly  up  or  down  the  river  with  a  greenish  wave  curl- 
ing smoothly  away  from  either  side  of  the  bow.  Besides 
the  iron  hulled,  steam  propelled  vessels,  there  is  still  an 
occasional  wooden  sailing  vessel,  with  graceful  masts 
and  wing-like  spread  of  canvas,  and  I  could  not  help 
thinking  that  to  voyage  in  one  of  those  must  be  much 
more  romantic  and  pleasurable  than  in  the  prosaic 
modern  iron  ships. 

One  day  a  casual  acquaintance  interested  me  in 
Marysville  on  the  St.  Clair  River,  a  little  south  of  the 
thriving  city  of  Port  Huron.  According  to  this  infor- 
mant it  was  a  sleepy,  decadent  village,  twenty  years 
behind  the  times,  without  the  inhabitants  being  aware 
of  the  fact.  Its  people  were  chiefly  river  pirates,  and 
proud  to  be  known  as  such;  but  if  I  would  like  to  see 
the  lowest  strata  of  waterside  dwellers  I  must  hunt  up 
the  "river  rats."  They  were  downright  thieves,  and 
the  pirates  despised  them.  A  river  rat  would  carry  oflF 
anything  he  could  lay  his  hands  on — he  would  steal 
from  his  best  friend.  As  for  the  pirates,  they  simply 
took  possession  of  whatever  of  value  they  found  washed 
up  on  shore  or  floating  down  the  river,  the  owner  of 
which  was  not  promptly  on  hand  to  prove  his  claim. 
Logs  made  up  the  bulk  of  their  gains.  These  came  to 
them  marked  on  the  butts  with  the  stamp  of  the  owner, 
but  the  pirates  simply  sawed  the  butts  off  and  let  the 
swift  current  carry  them  away.    Then  no  one  would  be 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  121 

able  to  prove  who  the  logs  had  originally  belonged  to. 
They  had  a  particularly  rich  harvest  when  a  raft 
broke  up. 

I  expected  to  find  a  rude,  shabby  hamlet  whose  free- 
booting  inhabitants  would  be  decidedly  romantic.  It 
was,  however,  a  quiet  little  place  of  orderly  cottages, 
grassy  yards  and  tidy  gardens,  with  fruit  trees  close 
about,  and  elms  and  maples  shadowing  the  streets. 
Yes,  and  there  were  two  or  three  churches;  and  a  group 
of  children  on  a  street  corner  were  talking  religion. 

"We're  going  to  have  a  plenary  indulgence  next 
Sunday,"  remarked  one  of  the  girls. 

"What  in  blazes  is  that.?"  asked  a  companion,  and 
then  turning  to  the  others  added,  "Myrtle  has  swal- 
lowed the  dictionary,  and  it's  coming  up  in  pieces." 

I  sought  out  the  oldest  inhabitant  and  inquired  about 
river  pirates,  taking  care  to  do  so  gently  that  I  might 
not  hurt  his  feelings  in  case  he  happened  to  be  one  him- 
self. He  was  a  good  deal  mystified.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  said  the  people  were  mostly  employed  at  neigh- 
boring salt  works,  and  I  thought  best  to  change  the 
subject  and  ask  about  old  times. 

"My  folks  moved  to  Port  Huron  when  I  was  a  baby," 
said  the  old  man.  "There  was  just  sand  and  scrub 
oaks  where  the  center  of  the  town  is  now.  The  first 
steam  sawmill  anywhere  in  this  part  of  the  country  had 
been  built  there,  and  father  worked  in  it.  They  were 
getting  out  splendid  timber,  but  it  brought  no  price 
till  the  time  of  the  Civil  War.   There  was  as  yet  no  great 


122      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

amount  of  traffic  on  the  lakes,  and  only  an  occasional 
little  sailing  vessel  or  small  steamer  passed  up  or  down 
the  river. 

"We  saw  rather  more  of  Injuns  than  we  did  of  whites 
at  first.  They  were  always  travellin'  back'ards  and 
for'ards  here.  In  the  fall  they'd  come  over  from  Canada 
and  go  up  Black  River.  Maybe  there'd  be  thirty 
canoes.  The  Injuns  would  paddle  up  the  little  river 
and  gather  cranberries  and  stay  all  winter  in  the  woods 
hunting,  and  in  the  spring  they'd  make  maple  sugar. 
Their  canoes  was  often  dugouts  of  pine  or  white  ash, 
and  I've  seen  a  canoe  made  out  of  a  butternut  tree  that 
would  hold  twenty-five  men.  Often  they'd  camp  near 
the  mill  and  put  up  wigwams  made  out  of  ellum  bark. 
For  weapons  they  mostly  used  bows  and  arrows. 

"My  companions  was  principally  young  Injuns,  and 
I've  played  with  'em  many  a  day.  I  got  so  I  could 
understand  their  language  pretty  well,  and  I  could  work 
a  canoe  or  shoot  with  a  bow  as  well  as  any  of  'em.  I 
gol!  we  had  more  fun  with  black  squirrels  than  any- 
thing else.  Say,  those  squirrels  were  thick,  and  they 
were  fine  eatin'.  We'd  go  ketchin'  'em  in  the  little 
scrubby  oaks.  If  we  see  a  squirrel  on  the  ground  we'd 
take  after  him  and  chase  him  up  a  tree.  Then  we'd 
throw  clubs  and  shoot  arrows  at  him.  Sometimes  we'd 
shake  a  squirrel  out  of  a  tree  and  ketch  him  in  our  hands 
to  carry  home  and  put  in  a  cage.  They'd  bite  like  Sam 
Hill  and  make  your  blood  fly,  but  we  never  used  to 


Ancient  mariners 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  123 

mind  it.     As  soon  as  we  could,  we'd  grip  'em  by  the 
head  so  they  couldn't  use  their  teeth. 

"I  often  went  with  the  Injun  boys  in  a  dugout  to  a 
marsh  to  spear  fish.  You  have  to  be  a  little  careful 
about  navigatin'  a  dugout.  It  turns  over  easy,  and  I've 
been  dumped  out  and  got  a  soakin'  more'n  once.  We'd 
get  a  mess  of  fish  and  then  divide  'em.  The  Injun  boys 
was  inclined  not  to  be  fair  about  the  dividing  and  would 
take  much  more  than  their  share.  But  one  white  boy 
is  equal  to  a  dozen  of  'em.  I'd  draw  off  with  my  paddle 
and  slap  'em  right  and  left,  and  they'd  give  in.  I  never 
was  afraid  of  an  Injun  no  more  than  I  was  of  a  squirrel. 
I  heard  stories  of  their  scalping,  but  I  never  seen  any  on 
'em  who  had  much  courage.  An  Injun  will  make  a  big 
splur,  and  you'd  think  he  was  goin'  to  eat  you,  and  yet 
if  you  walk  right  up  and  give  him  a  smash  in  the  mouth, 
he's  gone.  We  kept  a  sharp  watch  of  'em  when  they 
came  around  our  homes.  They  don't  steal,  but  they 
swipe,  and  they'll  take  a  thing  from  right  under  your 
eyes    and    deny    it. 

"An  Injun  never  forgets  a  favor — I'll  say  that  for 
'em.  One  night  I  was  in  the  sawmill  workin'  around 
the  engine,  and  I  glanced  up  and  for  an  instant  saw  a 
pair  of  eyes  lookin'  in  at  the  window.  I  went  to  the 
door,  but  I  couldn't  see  where  in  the  dickens  the  owner 
of  those  eyes  had  gone  to.  So  I  continued  with  my 
work,  at  the  same  time  keepin'  watch  of  the  window. 
Pretty  soon  the  eyes  were  there  again,  and  I  jumped  out 
and  grabbed  someone  and  drew  him  inside.    It  was  an 


124      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Injun,  and  his  wrists  was  handcuffed  together.  He 
held  'em  up  and  shook  the  chain.    'Yow,  yow!'  he  said. 

"He'd  been  locked  up  somewhere  for  gettin'  drunk. 
I  took  a  cold  chisel  and  got  the  handcuffs  off,  and  the 
Injun  was  away  like  a  flash.  I  didn't  see  him  till  the 
next  fall.  Then  he  came  in  a  canoe  and  brought  me  a 
haunch  of  venison  and  some  maple  sugar  and  other 
stuff  to  show  his  gratitude. 

"But  if  an  Injun  thinks  you've  done  him  an  injury 
he's  mean.  He'll  remember  that  injury  longer  than  he 
will  a  favor — you  bet  your  bottom  dollar  he  will,  and 
he'll  get  even  with  you. 

"It  was  a  perfect  wilderness  here  when  I  was  young, 
and  the  woods  were  full  of  game,  and  the  water  full  of 
fish.  Partridges  were  very  plentiful  and  we  got  to  know 
where  they  lived  and  which  were  their  drumming  logs. 
I've  killed  any  amount  of  quail  and  wild  turkeys.  I 
shot  a  wild  turkey  right  in  that  pine  tree  across  the 
road,  thirty-six  years  ago.  There  were  lots  more  mush- 
rats  than  there  are  now,  and  the  Injuns  were  fond  of 
'em  for  food.  I  like  'em  myself,  and  so  would  you  if  you 
et  'em  without  knowin'  what  they  were.  We  had  all  the 
venison  we  wanted.  We  could  go  to  an  Injun  camp  and 
buy  a  nice  venison  ham  for  twenty  cents,  or  twenty-five 
at  the  outside;  or  perhaps  father  would  shoot  a  deer. 
He'd  send  us  boys  to  the  woods  leadin'  a  hound  with  a 
rope.  By  and  by  we'd  let  the  dog  go,  and  like  enough  in 
ten  minutes  we'd  hear  him  bay.  The  animal  the  dog 
stirred  up  would  make  for  the  water  by  one  of  their 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  125 

runways.  The  old  hunters  knew  their  nature  just  as 
well  as  we  do  that  of  a  horse,  and  father  could  tell  pretty 
near  where  to  stand  to  shoot  when  the  deer  came  out  of 
the  woods.  If  the  deer  got  into  the  water  he'd  follow  it 
with  a  boat. 

"Our  guns  weren't  good  for  anything.  The  first  I 
remember  were  all  old  flintlocks,  and  you  had  to  carry 
a  great  big  cowhorn  at  your  side  full  of  powder.  Your 
gun  wouldn't  go  off  half  the  time  that  you  pulled  the 
trigger,  and  when  it  did  go  off  it  made  so  much  smoke 
you  couldn't  see.  Some  of  'em,  my  gracious!  would 
kick  you  down — yes,  and  kick  you  after  you  was  down; 
and  they  wouldn't  shoot  hardly  across  the  road.  You'd 
see  a  deer  perhaps  six  or  eight  rods  off.  Click!  your 
gun  would  go  without  discharging,  and  the  deer  would 
be  out  of  sight  in  a  jiffy.  But  the  deer  wouldn't  run 
far,  and  you  could  steal  up  and  try  again.  They  were 
tame.  Lots  of  mornings  in  the  late  fall  and  early  winter 
I've  seen  as  many  as  half  a  dozen  feeding  at  our  wheat 
stack. 

"Sometimes  a  buck  would  charge  you.  I  don't 
recall  any  other  wild  animals  which  showed  that  much 
courage.  I've  seen  a  good  many  bears,  but  they'd  run 
like  the  very  old  Nick  from  you.  I  never  had  much  use 
for  a  bear.  I'd  save  the  hide,  but  the  meat  is  greasy 
and  coarse.  I  can't  say  I  relish  it,  and  I'd  give  away  a 
chunk  to  anyone  that  would  accept  it  and  throw  the 
rest  away. 

"Of  all  the  wild  birds  the  pigeons  were  the  most 


126      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

numerous.  As  recently  as  twenty-five  years  ago  they 
flew  so  thick  I  couldn't  see  the  sun,  but  since  the  country 
has  been  cleared  up,  and  their  nesting-places  spoiled, 
they've  all  gone.  They  were  a  bluish  color  with  a  long 
tail,  and  the  male  had  a  red  breast.  The  spring,  or  the 
fore  part  of  summer,  was  the  time  for  the  great  flocks. 
A  tamarack  swamp  near  here  was  a  favorite  nesting- 
place,  and  I've  seen  eighteen  nests  there  on  a  single  tree. 
The  nests  were  a  few  little  sticks  across  a  limb  close  to 
the  tree-trunk.  Only  two  eggs  would  be  laid  in  a  nest. 
After  the  young  were  old  enough  to  fly,  the  birds  scat- 
tered, but  they  were  still  pretty  thick  in  places  where 
food  was  plenty.  If  a  man  had  a  field  of  wheat  or  any- 
thing like  that  ripening  he  had  to  watch  it  and  protect 
it  from  them;  and  in  the  autumn  you'd  find  a  good 
many  in  the  woods  where  there  were  beechnuts. 

"Their  big  flights  were  made  early  in  the  morning, 
and  they  went  very  swift.  If  the  wind  blew  hard  they 
flew  high,  but  in  a  light  warm  south  wind  they  flew  low, 
just  skimming  along  over  the  water  or  the  ground  or  the 
treetops.  You  could  throw  clubs  at  'em  and  get  all  the 
birds  you  wanted  in  a  little  while,  or  you  could  take  a 
stout  sapling  with  twigs  on  the  end  and  whip  'em 
down.  I'd  go  with  my  shotgun  right  over  next  to  the 
woods  beside  a  stump,  and  at  every  discharge  they'd 
drop  like  hailstones.  Some  men  made  a  business  of 
trapping  and  killing  'em  to  ship  off,  but  I  just  got  'em 
for  fun  to  eat  and  to  give  around  to  everyone  that 
wanted  'em.     I  remember  once  when  I'd  got  up  early 


■^l 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  127 

to  shoot  pigeons  my  wife  brought  out  a  big  bushel 
basket  about  nine  o'clock,  and  we  carried  it  back 
heapin'  full.  *  I  don't  know  what  we're  goin'  to  do  with 
all  of  'em,'  I  says. 

"  'I  know,'  says  she.    'We're  goin'  to  pick  'em.' 

"Well,  we  dressed  'em  and  filled  the  boiler  and  the 
kittles,  and  she  cooked  'em.  Then  she  put  'em  away  in 
crocks,  pickled  the  same  as  pigs'  feet,  and  flavored  with 
cloves.  They  were  fine  for  lunch — yes,  beautiful. 
When  I  felt  a  little  hungry  I'd  take  a  fork  and  go  get 
one  to  eat  with  bread  and  butter.    It  made  a  good  meal. 

"We  had  log  houses,  and  at  first  the  roofs  were  of 
split  shakes.  Later  we  had  handmade  shingles.  That's 
what  I've  got  on  this  house.  They  were  put  on  fifty-one 
years  ago,  and  the  roof  ain't  leaked  a  drop  since.  Some 
old  codger  who  was  kind  o'  played  out  would  take  a 
supply  of  pork  and  potatoes  and  go  off  to  the  woods 
where  there  was  some  big  pines  suitable  for  his  pur- 
pose on  government  land,  and  camp  for  the  winter 
and  make  shingles.  Toward  spring  he'd  get  someone 
to  come  with  a  yoke  of  oxen  and  draw  his  shingles  out. 
He'd  sell  'em  for  seventy-five  cents  or  so  a  thousand. 
You  couldn't  buy  'em  today  for  five  dollars,  and  they 
can't  be  got  as  good  at  any  price. 

"The  lumber  company  was  glad  to  sell  its  cut-off 
land  for  ten  shillings  an  acre.  Oh,  gol!  those  old 
farmers  got  rich.  They  picked  right  up.  Say  for  in- 
stance you  had  a  piece  of  land  cleared,  you  could  plant 
potatoes  and  such  like,  and  sell  all  you  raised  to  the 


128      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

soldiers  that  were  stationed  here.  The  potatoes  were 
great  big  fellows.  We'd  get  a  peck  out  of  a  hilL  You 
could  buy  a  first-class  nice  cow  for  ten  dollars,  and  at 
that  price  you  could  afford  to  sell  your  butter  cheap. 
It  had  to  be  awful  good  to  bring  ten  cents  a  pound. 
The  cattle  run  in  the  woods  wherever  they  had  a  mind 
to,  and  it  was  no  expense  raisin'  'em.  Oh,  this  used  to 
be  a  pretty  good  place  for  a  poor  man! 

"One  cow  belonging  to  each  farmer  wore  a  bell,  and 
people  knew  the  different  bells  by  the  sound.  The  cows 
fed  in  company,  and  when  a  boy  went  to  get  his  own 
cows  he  brought  all  the  cows  along  to  the  village  to  be 
milked.  After  the  weather  begun  to  get  cold  in  the  fall 
they'd  come  up  to  the  farm  buildings  every  night  of 
their  own  accord,  and  we'd  yard  'em.  We  had  wheat- 
straw  and  stalks  and  hay  to  winter  'em  on. 

"Just  outside  our  yard  fence  was  a  trough  dug  out 
of  a  big  log,  and  into  that  we  emptied  the  skim  milk  we 
didn't  want  to  use,  and  the  swill,  for  the  hogs.  They 
ran  free  in  the  woods,  too;  but  they  didn't  get  wild,  and 
the  only  drawback  was  that  the  bears  now  and  then 
killed  some  of  'em.  Yes,  there  were  hundreds  of  hogs 
runnin'  loose,  and  in  the  autumn  they  got  fat  on  the 
shack — that  is,  the  acorns  and  the  beech  and  hazel  nuts. 
They  lived  right  in  the  forest  the  whole  year.  Just 
before  winter  set  in  we'd  hitch  the  oxen  to  a  sled  and 
drag  around  through  the  woods,  and  when  we  saw  a 
good  big  hog  father  would  say,  'Take  that  feller!'  and 
we'd  shoot  it.     We  killed  what  hogs  we  wanted  and 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  129 

brought  'em  home  on  the  sled;  and  you  never'd  hear  a 
word  among  the  neighbors  about,  'You've  got  my  hog.' 
There  was  enough  for  everyone. 

"In  later  years  the  people  used  to  have  a  bee  when 
they  wanted  to  lay  in  a  supply  of  pork.  All  the  boys 
and  dogs  would  go  chasing  through  the  woods  and  drive 
the  porkers  into  a  pen  in  some  man's  yard,  where  a  little 
corn  or  wheat  had  been  scattered.  Then  each  man 
would  take  as  many  as  he  wanted  and  the  rest  would  be 
turned  loose. 

"On  that  new  ground  of  ours  an  acre  of  wheat,  if  it 
was  anyways  good,  would  furnish  enough  flour  to  last 
a  big  family  two  years.  We  stacked  the  wheat  near  the 
barn  and  thrashed  it  as  we  wanted  it.  Say  it  was  a 
stormy  morning  so  we  couldn't  work  outdoors  to  ad- 
vantage, we'd  flail  out  four  or  five  bushels,  get  our  oxen 
and  carry  it  to  mill.  We  couldn't  tell  how  soon  we'd 
get  back — depended  on  how  many  were  ahead  of  us. 
Maybe  we'd  be  gone  two  hours,  maybe  all  day. 

"Any  amount  of  blackberries,  strawberries,  and 
raspberries  grew  on  the  cut-off  land,  and  it  was  nothing 
uncommon  to  find  a  hollow  tree  with  six  or  seven  hun- 
dred of  honey  in  it.  Father  got  to  be  a  real  expert  bee 
hunter,  and  he'd  follow  a  swarm  for  miles  to  find  their 
honey  hoard.  If  we  wanted  maple  sugar  we  could  go 
to  the  Injuns  and  exchange  fifty  pounds  of  flour  or  a 
chunk  of  pork  worth  perhaps  seventy-five  cents  for  a 
hundred  pounds  of  sugar  put  up  in  a  nice  birch-bark 
box.    Often  we'd  make  our  own  sugar.    Half  a  dozen  of 


130      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

us  would  go  Into  the  woods  and  build  a  camp,  tap  trees, 
and  take  turns  boiling.  Oh,  we  fared  well,  and  the  only 
fault  I  could  find  with  this  country  was  that  there 
wa'n't  any  fruit  to  amount  to  anything. 

"We  had  stiddy  cold  weather  during  the  winter, 
except  for  a  thaw  in  January.  About  the  first  of  April 
the  weather  would  break,  the  snow  melted,  and  we'd 
get  the  crops  started.  We  didn't  mind  the  cold  of  the 
winters.  If  you  had  a  good  ax,  and  there  was  a  couple 
of  stoves  in  the  house  you  could  keep  as  warm  as  you 
wanted  to  without  expense.  The  more  wood  you 
burned  the  better,  because  that  helped  to  clear  the  land. 
We'd  fell  the  trees  in  the  near  woods,  trim  off  the 
branches,  and  hitch  on  our  oxen  and  draw  'em  to  the 
door,  where  we'd  cut  'em  up.  We  had  no  matches. 
Flint  and  steel  served  instead.  We'd  get  punk  in  a 
rotten  soft  maple  tree,  dry  it,  and  use  it  to  strike  sparks 
into.  Some  of  the  old  men  carried  a  flint  and  steel  in 
their  pockets  to  light  their  pipes.  In  summer,  if  there 
was  a  hollow  elm  handy,  either  standing  or  fallen, 
we'd  start  a  fire  in  that.  It  would  burn  maybe  for 
months,  and  we'd  bring  coals  from  it  whenever  we 
needed  to  kindle  our  house  fires. 

"After  a  while  we  kept  sheep,  and  my  mother  spun 
all  the  yarn  for  our  stockin's,  and  all  the  thread  for  our 
woolen  clothes.  Them  was  the  shirts  and  things  to 
wear!  They  was  thick  as  a  board.  Mother  would  often 
be  up  spinning  till  ten  at  night.  I  had  a  couple  of  sisters 
older'n  me,  and  they'd  generally  knit  of  an  evening. 


From  Lake  Erie  to  Lake  Huron  131 

Probably  us  fellers  would  be  crackin'  nuts.  A  roustin' 
good  fire  would  be  burnin'  in  the  fireplace,  and  it  was 
very  cheerful  in  the  old  kitchen. 

"The  woolen  thread  was  sent  away  to  be  wove  into 
cloth,  but  we  done  our  own  coloring.  In  the  fall  we'd 
get  a  woman  who  understood  makin'  clothes  to  come 
and  stay  In  the  family  a  while  and  make  us  two  suits  all 
around.  A  shoemaker  would  come  in  the  same  way  and 
make  footwear  for  us  out  of  leather  we'd  bought. 

"After  I  grew  up  I  worked  summers  on  the  lake 
vessels.  I've  sailed  all  over  these  lakes  and  been  out  in 
some  pretty  rough  weather.  I've  set  right  down  on  the 
cabin  floor  to  eat,  when  the  vessel  was  rolling  bad  in  a 
storm.  The  table  would  be  bottom  side  up,  and  the 
stove  all  smashed  to  pieces,  and  I'd  hold  my  plate  in  my 
lap  and  slide  back  and  forth  as  the  waves  pitched  the 
boat  this  way  and  that.  But  in  the  course  of  time  I 
decided  to  settle  down,  and  here  I've  lived  ever  since. 
With  the  associations  it  has  with  my  youth  no  other 
region  can  compare  with  this  for  me." 

I  came  away  feeling  very  well  satisfied  with  what  I 
had  learned  from  the  oldest  inhabitant;  yet  I  confess 
to  some  lingering  regrets  that  he  was  not  a  pirate. 

Note. — Detroit  is  one  of  the  great  industrial  centers  of  America, 
and  as  such  is  decidedly  interesting.  It  has  had  a  noteworthy  his- 
tory which  also  lends  to  its  attraction,  and  its  suburban  resorts  along 
the  river  are  famous  for  their  beauty.  Here  the  shipping  of  the  lakes 
passing  up  and  down  the  narrow  waterway  can  be  seen  to  excep- 


132      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

tional  advantage.  The  great  freighters  are  almost  constantly  in 
sight,  for  the  amount  of  traffic  on  these  freshwater  seas,  with  more 
than  thirty  million  people  living  in  the  states  bordering  their  shores, 
is  tremendous.  Among  the  other  craft  you  may  see  one  of  the' 
aristocrats  of  the  lake  fleet— a  passenger  steamer.  These  steamers 
are  models  of  comfort,  the  larger  and  more  recent  ones  resembling 
in  style  and  size  the  ocean  liners,  and  the  cost  of  travelling  in  them 
is  wonderfully  low.  Of  the  freighters  the  type  of  vessel  that  has  the 
most  curious  individuality  is  the  whaleback,  a  blunt-ended  hulk 
with  rounded  gunwales,  which  from  its  appearance  and  its  manner 
of  rooting  and  rolling  about  in  the  waves  has  gained  the  nickname 
of  the  "pig."  These  vessels  are  unique  and  picturesque,  but  not 
entirely  successful;  for  they  are  so  rigid  a  slight  bumping  against 
wharves  or  locks  makes  the  steel  plates  cut  the  rivets. 

It  is  easy  to  make  a  jaunt  into  Canada  from  Detroit,  and  a  visit 
to  some  of  the  little  French  Canadian  villages  furnishes  a  most 
agreeable  experience, 

A  pleasant  way  to  see  the  country  along  the  waterside  from  De- 
troit to  Port  Huron  is  to  go  by  trolley  the  entire  sixty  miles. 


The  village  sidezvalk 


VII 


A  MICHIGAN  FOREST  FIRE 

ALPENA  on  Thunder  Bay"  had  sounded  very 
attractive  to  me;  for  was  not  the  name  of  the 
town  suggestive  of  the  Alps,  and  that  of  the  bay 
no  less  suggestive  of  rocky  shores  and  storms  and  tragic 
wrecks?  But  there  are  no  mountains,  and  there  are  no 
rocks,  and  the  Bay  is  no  more  subject  to  storms  than 
are  the  adjacent  waters  of  Lake  Huron.  Indeed,  the 
Bay  is  quite  mild,  with  low,  wooded  shores,  except  oppo- 
site the  city.  There  the  sawmills  have  taken  possession, 
and  their  stacks  of  rubbish  and  piers  piled  with  lumber 
reach  out  into  the  shallows  and  monopolize  the  water- 
front for  miles.  I  questioned  one  of  the  local  residents 
about  the  name  of  the  Bay. 

"Most  names,"  said  he,  "are  given  by  chance. 
Probably  some  early  exploring  party  encountered  a 
heavy  thunderstorm  here.  I'll  give  you  an  instance  of 
how  names  start.  My  father  owned  a  tract  of  land 
where  a  few  shacks  had  been  put  up,  and  he  called  it 
'Shanty  Plain.'  You'll  find  good  buildings  and  nice 
farms  there  now,  but  it  still  retains  the  old  name." 

I  visited  one  of  the  bayside  sawmills  where  some  of 
the  remnants  of  Michigan's  great  forests  are  being 
converted  into  building  material.    The  state  originally 


134     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

included  the  most  notable  white  pine  region  in  the 
world,  and  by  1850  lumbering  was  an  important  indus- 
try.    Even  as  late  as  1890  four-fifths  of  the  state  was 
reported  to  be  forested.    But  now  the  former  woodland 
is  largely  denuded,  and  practically  no  white  pine  is  left. 
On  the  water  near  the  mill  were  many  acres  of  floating 
logs  restrained  by  booms,  and  these  logs  were  moving 
up  the  runways  and  disappearing  in  the  mill  at  the  rate 
of  more  than  one  a  minute.     Everywhere  the  air  was 
athrill  with  the  shrill,  high-keyed  voice  of  the  saws. 
The  speed  with  which  they  sliced  the  logs  into  boards 
and  planks  and  beams  was  marvellous,  and  it  was  sur- 
prising how  few  men  were  needed  to  guide  the  com- 
plicated machinery.    As  if  by  magic,  after  the  length- 
wise sawing  was  done,  the  lumber  was  trimmed  free  of 
all  waste,  cut  to  regular  lengths,  and  sorted,  and  then 
it  was  loaded  on  trucks  that  were  dragged  away  by 
horse  power  on  light  railways  to  be  piled  for  drying. 
The  lumber  is  not  shipped  at  once  lest  the  moisture  in 
it  should  ferment  and  discolor  the  wood  and  start  decay. 
The  drying  process  lasts  at  least  a  month  or  two,  and 
if  the  weather  is  wet  or  cold  a  decidedly  longer  delay  is 
necessary  before  it  is  safe  to  pack  the  lumber  in  a  close 
mass  in  the  holds  of  the  freight  steamers. 

A  little  river  joins  the  bay  at  Alpena,  and  serves  as  a 
highway  for  logs  cut  along  side  it  for  fifty  miles  or  more 
back  inland.  "They've  been  lumbering  there  ever  since 
I  can  remember,  and  I'm  thirty-seven  years  old,"  said 
one  man  with  whom  I  talked,  "but  not  much  is  left 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  135 

worth  cutting.  While  I  was  still  in  my  teens  I  began  to 
go  in  the  woods  working  at  the  lumber  camps  in  the 
winter.  Them  days  we  wouldn't  take  hardwood  or 
hemlock  and  this  small  scrubby  stuff — we  wouldn't  look 
at  it.  We'd  cut  the  hemlock  trees,  but  after  we'd  peeled 
'em  in  order  to  sell  the  bark  to  the  tanneries,  we  left  the 
logs  to  rot." 

The  man  was  chopping  near  the  road  in  a  bit  of  young 
forest  that  fire  and  wind  had  reduced  to  a  blackened 
prostrate  tangle.  I  asked  him  what  had  happened  to 
his  woodland.  "Well,  sir,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  replied. 
"Two  years  ago  a  fire  got  in  here.  I  don't  know  how  it 
started.  Probably  some  of  the  Alpena  boys  set  it.  I 
carried  water,  and  I  shoveled  dirt  on  the  fire,  and  my 
neighbors  helped  me.  Sometimes  we'd  think  we'd  got 
it  out,  but  it  was  burning  in  dry  muck  full  of  little  fine 
roots.  There  it  would  smoulder,  and  the  first  thing  we 
knew  a  spark  would  appear  at  the  surface  and  the  fire 
was  running  through  the  woods  like  the  dickens  again. 
I  fought  it  day  and  night,  for  I'd  only  recently  bought 
the  farm,  and  to  have  my  woodland  all  burnt  over 
meant  quite  a  loss  to  me.  But  there  wa'n't  much  use. 
The  fire  took  off  about  four  inches  of  mucky  surface, 
below  which  was  sand.  That  left  the  trees  with  nothing 
for  their  roots  to  grip,  and  the  first  wind  bent  'em  over. 
So  here  they  are  all  layin'  with  their  roots  up,  and  of 
very  little  value  even  for  firewood. 

"I  thought  I  was  goin'  to  get  a  good  start  this  year, 
but  we  had  a  white  frost  on  the  Fourth  of  July  which 


136      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

killed  my  cucumbers  and  all  like  that  and  hurt  my 
potatoes  badly.  Our  season  is  a  little  too  short,  but 
you  take  the  Poles  and  the  Germans  who've  settled 
through  here — they're  thrifty  people,  and  most  have 
got  some  money  ahead.  They  spend  little,  and  the 
whole  family  works.  That's  one  trouble  with  this 
region,  the  men  expect  the  women  to  work  harder  than 
they  do  themselves." 

I  walked  on  out  into  the  country.  The  woods 
were  taking  on  a  tinge  of  autumnal  yellow,  sumachs 
reddened  the  pastures,  and  a  bleak  wind  that  pres- 
aged the  approach  of  winter  was  blowing.  At  times 
the  sky  was  gloomed  with  threatening  clouds,  and  then 
they  would  drift  away  and  leave  a  clear,  deep  blue  sky. 
To  escape  from  the  chill  blast  I  made  a  call  at  a  country 
school.  The  building  was  of  wood,  but  was  painted  to 
imitate  brick.  The  yard  was  unshaded,  and  there  was 
brushy  cut-off  land  roundabout.  A  log  schoolhouse 
had  been  in  use  five  years  previous,  the  young  woman 
teacher  informed  me,  but  it  was  now  a  hog  pen  on  the 
premises  of  a  neighboring  farmer.  The  present  building 
was  not  erected  on  the  spot  where  I  saw  it.  Con- 
siderable strife  had  been  aroused  over  the  question  of 
its  placing,  and  after  it  was  finished  a  dissatisfied  crowd 
got  together  and  moved  it  to  the  location  it  now 
occupies. 

The  teacher  was  intelligent  and  faithful,  but  she  was 
without  special  training,  and  the  children,  who  were 
from  various  foreign-speaking  families,  were  not  making 


!  \ 


> 


Clearing  up  the  burnt  land 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  137 

very  brilliant  progress.  Their  reading,  for  instance, 
was  expressionless,  stumbling,  and  stupid — an  exercise 
in  the  recognition  of  words — not  in  the  apprehension  of 
ideas.  Right  in  the  center  of  the  room  was  a  big  stove 
which  baked  the  children  near  it,  while  those  on  the 
farther  edges  might  be  shivering.  The  teacher  got  to 
the  schoolhouse  at  half-past  eight  in  the  morning,  made 
the  fire,  swept,  and  then  rang  the  bell  that  hung  in  a 
little  cupola  perched  on  the  front  gable.  She  said  she 
had  a  comfortable  boarding-place,  but  that  the  teachers 
in  some  rustic  districts  fared  hardly  in  that  respect. 

After  I  left  the  schoolhouse  I  followed  a  side  road 
until  it  dwindled  to  a  grassy  trail  that  showed  only  the 
faintest  ruts  of  wheels,  and  here  I  found  a  little  log 
house  inhabited  by  a  Swedish  family.  There  was  no 
cellar  under  it,  for  the  ground  was  too  wet.  Moreover, 
the  earth  was  exceedingly  stony,  and  the  Swede  affirmed 
that  the  stones  extended  clear  down  to  the  old  country. 
He  had  neither  a  horse  nor  a  cow,  and  the  only  tool  he 
used  in  starting  his  potatoes  in  the  unplowed  stump- 
land  was  a  hoe.  His  children  walked  to  school,  a  dis- 
tance of  three  and  a  half  miles.  "But  that's  nothing 
to  a  kid,"  said  he.  "It  does  'em  good  to  get  out  and 
hustle,  and  besides  they  often  ketch  a  ride  in  winter." 

He  soon  turned  the  subject  of  our  conversation  to 
politics,  and  informed  me  that  he  was  a  socialist.  His 
place  did  not  seem  to  indicate  any  superlative  ability  as 
a  manager,  yet  I  discovered  that  he  had  very  definite 


138      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

notions  as  to  how  to  manage  the  affairs  of  the  entire 
country. 

Not  far  from  Alpena  occurred  in  1908  one  of  the  most 
tragic  of  Michigan's  forest  fires.  There  was  a  con- 
siderable loss  of  life,  and  the  town  of  Metz  was  com- 
pletely wiped  out.  Most  of  the  lives  were  lost  on  a 
freight  train  that  was  attempting  to  carry  a  load  of 
Metz  dwellers  to  safety.  The  engineer  of  the  train 
survived,  and  I  called  on  him  at  his  home  in  Alpena. 
I  had  been  told  that  he  was  terribly  burned  and  "had  an 
awful-lookin'  face  on  him  yet."  Certainly  he  would 
carry  the  scars  as  long  as  he  lived. 

"Metz,"  said  he,  "was  a  place  of  two  hundred  in- 
habitants— a  sort  of  trading  center  and  sawmill  village. 
It  was  burned  on  October  fifteenth.  There'd  been  fires 
all  summer,  and  often  the  smoke  in  the  air  was  so  dense 
we  could  hardly  see  a  hundred  yards,  and  it  made  our 
eyes  smart.  That  October  day  I  got  to  Metz  about 
noon  and  waited  for  orders.  I  was  there  several  hours, 
and  no  orders  came.  We  knew  by  the  smoke  that  a  big 
fire  was  burning  off  west  of  us,  and  a  hurricane  was 
driving  It  in  our  direction.  The  village  was  wedged  in 
between  two  pieces  of  woodland,  and  on  the  windward 
side  were  great  heaps  of  ties  and  posts  along  the  railroad, 
and  on  that  side,  too,  was  a  sawmill  with  many  months' 
accumulation  of  sawed  lumber  around  It.  The  place 
was  doomed,  and  would  evidently  be  so  hot  and  swept 
by  flames  that  no  one  could  stay  there  and  survive. 
It  was  decided  that  some  of  the  women  and  children  and 


The  pump  at  the  back  door 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  139 

old  people  should  go  out  of  the  threatened  region  on  the 
train.  After  loading  a  lot  of  furniture  and  valuables  on 
a  box  car,  fifty  or  sixty  of  them  with  their  bundles  and 
bags  got  on  one  of  these  iron  gondola  coal  cars.  The  rest 
of  the  train  consisted  of  four  other  coal  cars,  three  of 
'em  loaded  with  cedar  posts  and  one  with  hemlock  bark, 
which  we  thought  we  could  save. 

"The  smoke  rolled  in,  and  it  got  as  dark  as  night,  and 
then  the  fire  swept  into  one  corner  of  the  village  and  the 
church  began  to  burn.  I  couldn't  wait  for  orders  any 
longer,  and  we  started,  but  we  hadn't  gone  far  when  we 
overtook  a  man  and  his  wife.  They  were  on  their  way 
down  the  track  to  their  home,  about  two  miles  away. 
I  took  them  onto  the  engine.  They  were  distressed 
about  their  children  who  were  at  home  with  no  one  to 
look  after  'em  except  an  awful  old  woman — their  grand- 
mother. But  she  took  'em  over  to  a  field,  and  they 
escaped.  It  was  so  dark  I  couldn't  see  on  ahead,  and  I 
couldn't  tell  whether  I  was  running  into  danger  or  not. 
I  thought  the  fire  was  behind  us,  but  we  soon  were  in 
burning  woods.  Then  the  bark  which  was  on  a  car  just 
behind  the  tender  caught  on  fire,  and  burning  pieces 
began  to  fly  back  onto  the  people  in  the  open  car. 

"A  little  farther  on  we  came  out  of  the  woods,  and 
here  on  a  siding  a  number  of  cars  loaded  with  tan-bark 
were  standing.  On  the  other  side  of  the  main  track 
were  piles  of  cedar  posts,  and  the  bark  and  posts  were 
all  on  fire,  though  I  didn't  know  it  until  we  were  right 
between  'em.    Then  the  engine  went  off  the  track.    The 


L 


140      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

rails  had  been  warped  by  the  heat.  We  couldn't  have 
stopped  in  a  worse  place  for  those  that  were  on  the 
engine.  There  was  fire  on  each  side,  and  the  car  of  bark 
back  of  the  tender  was  burning  fiercely.  The  man  and 
woman  jumped  off,  and  the  fireman  got  into  the  water 
tank,  while  I  ran  around  in  the  cab  and  on  the  tender 
looking  out  this  way  and  that  amid  the  flying  sparks 
trying  to  see  if  there  was  some  chance  to  escape.  It 
was  then  I  was  burnt.  My  only  hope  was  with  the 
fireman  in  the  tank,  and  I  got  in  there.  We  were 
shoulder  deep  in  the  water,  and  we  kept  splashing  it  up 
on  each  other's  faces  to  get  some  relief  from  the  suf- 
focating smoke.  I  was  burned  worse  than  the  fireman, 
but  I  seemed  to  be  standing  it  better  than  he  did.  When 
he  showed  signs  of  collapse  I'd  slap  and  shake  him. 

"Tan  bark  will  burn  a  long  time,  and  it  makes  a  ter- 
rible hot  fire — hot  as  a  lot  of  oil  barrels,  and  the  heat 
from  the  car  behind  and  the  cars  on  the  side  track  was 
warming  up  the  tank.  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  get  out 
of  there.  By  then  the  cedar  posts  had  burned  down 
considerable,  and  I  put  my  hand  up  once  or  twice  and 
felt  that  the  heat  on  that  side  was  not  nearly  as  bad  as 
it  had  been.  We  could  hardly  speak.  I  was  chokin' 
and  he  was  chokin',  but  we  managed  to  say  enough  to 
agree  to  climb  out  and  try  to  get  away.  So  out  I 
jumped  and  ran  along  beside  the  engine.  The  coals 
lay  there  a  foot  deep,  and  my  shoes  was  burned  so  the 
leather  cracked,  but  I  got  beyond  the  embers  of  the 
cedar   piles   and   turned   to   look  for  the  fireman.     I 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  141 

thought  he'd  be  right  behind  me.  He  didn't  come,  and 
I  went  on  alone  following  the  track  toward  Posen,  the 
next  town,  three  miles  distant.  There  was  fire  all  the 
way  and  once  or  twice  I  thought  I  was  goin'  to  get 
ketched  again.  With  what  I'd  gone  through,  and  the 
exertion  of  running,  I  was  pretty  near  all  in  when  I  got 
to  Posen,  and  I  had  to  spend  six  months  in  the  hospital. 

"The  fireman  never  left  the  tank.  The  hose  burnt 
off  and  let  the  water  out.  Then  it  was  just  like  an  oven 
in  there,  and  he  couldn't  have  lasted  long.  The  man 
and  woman  on  the  engine  with  us  burned,  and  so  did  the 
brakeman;  but  the  people  on  the  coal  car  were  not  so 
surrounded  by  fire  as  we  were,  and  their  case  was  not  so 
hopeless.  Thirteen  of  'em  perished,  and  the  balance 
of  'em  escaped.  Two  managed  to  return  to  Metz.  The 
rest  got  away  to  open  fields.  Some  had  their  hands 
and  faces  painfully  blistered,  but  only  a  few  were  per- 
manently disfigured.  Those  of  the  Metz  people  who 
weren't  on  the  train  got  out  on  the  cultivated  land  and 
passed  through  the  fire  uninjured." 

Metz  had  been  rebuilt,  and  I  determined  to  see  it. 
The  place  proved  to  be  something  like  a  Wild  West 
village  of  the  arid  regions  in  appearance.  It  stands  on  a 
treeless,  sandy  waste  where  grow  scanty  patches  of 
grass  and  weeds,  and  the  buildings  are  of  the  plainest 
type,  some  of  them  mere  shacks.  The  only  thing  burn- 
able that  did  not  burn  was  a  tall  cedar  flagpole.  This 
had  been  set  in  place  a  few  days  before  the  fire,  and  the 
wood  was  full  of  sap.    It  stood  close  to  a  store,  and  the 


142      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

flames  bit  into  it  slightly  on  that  side,  but  otherwise  it 
was  unharmed. 

A  mile  and  a  half  down  the  track  is  the  place  where 
the  freight  train  burned.  This  was  such  a  peaceful  spot 
when  I  saw  it  that  I  could  hardly  realize  it  had  been 
the  scene  of  a  dire  tragedy.  Here  was  a  siding  growing 
to  thistles,  which  half  concealed  a  strewing  of  rusty 
stoves  and  pieces  of  iron  beds  that  had  been  on  the 
ill-fated  train.  Roundabout  were  open  fields,  two  or 
three  farmhouses  were  in  sight,  and  I  could  hear  the 
pastoral  tinkle  of  cowbells,  the  singing  of  birds,  the 
hum  of  insects. 

The  region  had  not  been  by  any  means  densely 
wooded,  and  I  wondered  that  such  a  ravaging  fire 
could  have  swept  it.  Everywhere  the  forest  was 
checkered  with  farms,  and  it  did  not  appear  as  if  a  fire 
could  run  fast  or  far.  Yet  rarely  did  even  the  smallest 
patch  of  trees  escape,  and  when  I  looked  from  rising 
ground,  that  dreary  desolation  of  bare-twigged,  black- 
ened woodland  stretched  away  on  all  sides  to  the 
horizon.  Some  trees  that  were  not  quite  dead  were 
putting  forth  a  few  struggling  shoots  from  their  fire- 
scarred  trunks,  and  there  was  a  thick  undergrowth  of 
saplings  and  weeds. 

I  rambled  out  among  the  farms  and  stopped  to  eat 
dinner  with  a  hospitable  German  family.  Their  house 
was  a  comfortable,  fair-sized  dwelling,  but  not  very 
substantial  or  shapely,  and  rather  untidy  in  its  sur- 
roundings.   It  was  well  off  the  main  highway  and  was 


Grubbing  up  stumps 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  143 

approached  by  a  ponderously  fenced  lane  where  the 
pigs  rooted  in  great  content.  We  sat  at  table  in  the 
kitchen,  with  the  sink  on  one  side  of  us,  and  the  cook- 
stove  on  the  other.  Before  we  began  eating,  the 
youngest  daughter,  a  fresh,  vigorous  schoolgirl  in  her 
early  teens  rose  and  asked  a  long  blessing  in  German. 

None  of  the  family  could  speak  of  the  fire  without 
emotion,  though  they  had  fared  far  better  than  most  of 
the  neighbors.  "About  one  o'clock  that  day  we  men- 
folks  went  to  work  drawing  gravel,"  said  the  farmer. 
"We'd  got  one  load. on  when  we  saw  a  big  smoke  over 
to  the  southwest.  The  wind  was  blowing  hard  and  the 
smoke  looked  dangerous.  My  son-in-law  who  was 
helping  us  lived  in  that  direction,  some  four  miles 
away.    Says  I,  'You  get  right  back  home.' 

"He  had  his  gun  with  him,  and  he  agreed  to  shoot 
it  three  times  if  he  thought  from  what  he  saw  on  the 
way  that  the  fire  was  comin'  here.  He  couldn't  have 
gone  half  the  distance  when  we  heard  his  gun,  and  he 
shot  a  dozen  times  which  made  us  conclude  things  were 
pretty  serious.  We  quit  work  and  went  to  the  house. 
The  boy  was  getting  out  a  pair  of  horses  intending  to 
start  ploughing.  'Go  right  back  into  the  stable  with 
'em,'  I  says,  'and  take  their  harnesses  off  and  turn  'em 
into  the  field. ' 

"Then  we  went  to  pumping,  and  filled  everything  on 
the  place  that  would  hold  water.  We  could  hear  the 
fire  now  comin'  with  a  roar  like  a  heavy  thunderstorm. 
Pretty  soon  it  throwed  into  my  woods.     I  went  to  the 


144      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

edge  of  the  timber  to  see  if  there  was  any  chance  to 
stop  it.    I  saw  there  wasn't  and  I  said, '  Let  her  go. ' 

"My  wife  had  been  to  call  on  a  neighbor.  By  and  by 
she  came  home  and  she  kept  saying,  'We're  all  goin'  to 
burn.' 

"  'No,'  says  I,  'we  won't.'  I  had  to  repeat  that  half 
a  dozen  times  and  tell  her  to  get  right  to  work. 

"Well,  it  did  look  as  if  the  whole  world  was  comin' 
to  an  end,  but  we  stayed  right  here  and  fought  the  fire. 
It  was  dark  at  four  o'clock  already.  The  smoke  was  so 
thick  we  were  all  choked  with  it,  and  everybody  was 
holdin'  their  eyes  when  they  had  a  chance.  The  wind 
would  shoot  the  flames  right  over  the  treetops,  and  then 
down  into  the  fields.  Big  balls  of  fire  were  flyin'  through 
the  air  clear  across  my  farm,  so  that  almost  at  once  the 
woods  on  the  other  side  were  burning.  I  had  a  pile  of 
ties  worth  two  hundred  dollars  in  a  field  half  a  mile  from 
the  woods,  but  they  burned.  When  that  freight  train 
from  Metz  went  past  we  could  hear  the  people  on  it 
hollerin'  and  cryin'.  The  car  in  front  and  the  car  behind 
were  on  fire,  and  it  was  a  lucky  thing  the  train  got 
wrecked.     Otherwise,  they'd  all  burnt. 

"We  wet  things  down  pretty  thoroughly,  but  our 
buildings  caught  fire  again  and  again.  I'd  set  watchers 
here  and  there  on  the  premises,  and  I  had  one  of  my 
sons  take  off  his  shoes  so  he  could  walk  stockin'-foot 
around  on  the  house-roof.  Once  the  boy  who  was 
watching  the  barn  shouted  that  he'd  seen  a  great  big 
flame  go  right  in  the  barn  window.     Sure  enough,  the 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  145 

hay  was  on  fire  in  there,  but  I  dashed  in  with  two  pails 
of  water  and  outened  it. 

"Just  as  we  were  in  the  biggest  danger  the  pump 
handle  broke.  I  tried  to  fix  it,  but  bein'  excited  I  guess 
I  couldn't  find  anything.  So  we  tore  off  the  cover  of  the 
well  and  drew  the  water  up  with  a  pail  and  rope.  When 
we  had  things  in  pretty  good  control  I  told  my  sons  to 
run  down  the  lane  to  the  schoolhouse.  They  found  the 
woodpile  right  beside  it  burning,  but  there  was  a  pump 
in  the  yard,  and  they  put  the  fire  out. 

"No  one  slept  any  that  night,  though  the  worst  of 
the  danger  was  over  in  a  couple  of  hours.  The  people 
who  had  been  burnt  out  began  to  flock  in  here  during 
the  evening.  Half  a  dozen  teams  were  hitched  along 
my  fence,  and  by  midnight  there  was  seventy  of  us. 
My  wife  was  almost  played  out,  but  about  one  or  two 
o'clock  she  started  to  make  supper  or  breakfast — I  do' 
know  which  'twas.  Some  of  the  outsiders  was  bashful 
to  eat,  knowin'  they  couldn't  very  well  make  any  return, 
but  I  said,  'Go  right  ahead  and  help  yourselves  to  such 
food  as  we're  able  to  set  before  you,  and  when  that's 
gone  we'll  try  to  get  more. ' 

"We  had  a  good  supply  of  provisions  as  it  happened, 
for  only  a  few  days  before  we'd  killed  a  pig  and  bought 
a  couple  of  barrels  of  flour.  Nearly  all  that  crowd  were 
here  three  days.  By  that  time  supplies  were  beginning 
to  be  brought  in  on  the  railroad.  You  couldn't  blame 
'em  for  bein'  downhearted.     Usually  all  they'd  saved 


146      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

was  what  they  took  under  their  arms,  and  often  that 
wasn't  enough  to  make  a  pillow  out  of. 

"For  two  days  the  air  was  dense  with  smoke,  and 
then  we  had  a  little  rain.  That  cleared  the  air  and  put 
out  the  smouldering  embers.  The  fire  burned  a  strip 
twelve  miles  wide  and  only  stopped  when  it  got  to  the 
lake.  It  took  more  than  half  the  scattered  houses — 
yes,  I  guess  three-fourths  of  them.  Occasionally  a  life 
was  lost,  and  there  were  a  good  many  narrow  escapes, 
and  some  persons  were  so  crippled  up  they  were  never 
good  for  anything  afterward.  One  of  my  sons  taught 
school  five  miles  south  of  here.  When  he  noticed  how 
heavy  the  smoke  was  gettin'  he  took  the  children  to 
their  homes  and  then  started  for  his  own  home  on  his 
bicycle,  and  he  was  almost  burned  comin'  through  a 
swamp  that  was  on  fire.  Then  there  was  the  old  folks — 
my  wife's  father  and  mother.  The  old  lady  was  sick 
abed,  and  when  the  old  man  saw  that  the  fire  was  goin' 
to  get  their  place  he  took  her  on  his  back  and  carried  her 
to  a  neighbor's.  Pretty  soon  that  house  was  in  danger, 
too.  So  he  carried  her  to  the  cemetery,  and  stayed  there 
until  the  fence  was  burning  and  the  grass  caught  afire. 
Then  he  went  to  another  neighbor's,  and  that  house 
didn't  burn.  But  the  experience  was  too  much  for  his 
wife.  It  finished  her  up,  and  she  died  in  about  five 
weeks. 

"Some  of  those  whose  homes  burned  slept  out  that 
cold  October  night.  There  was  a  woman  and  two 
children  I   know  who  did  that.     They  had  only  the 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  147 

clothes  they  wore,  and  the  woman  took  off  one  of  her 
skirts  and  wrapped  it  around  the  children, 

"Quite  a  few  farm  creatures  were  burned — some  in 
the  barns  and  sheds,  and  some  in  the  woods.  The  hogs 
were  in  the  woods  after  beechnuts,  and  the  first  thing 
they  knew  the  fire  had  perhaps  surrounded  them.  Lots 
of  cattle  and  horses  were  caught  in  the  same  way.  Oh, 
gosh!  it  was  bad. 

"The  fire  ran  through  most  of  the  grass  in  the  fields, 
and  the  country  was  all  black.  She  looked  tough. 
There  were  a  few  grass  patches  on  my  farm  that  escaped 
and  the  cattle  all  piled  in  here  and  grubbed  the  grass  up 
by  the  roots  almost.  The  cattle  usually  got  most  of 
their  feed  in  the  woods,  even  in  winter,  but  now  nothing 
was  left  for  them  there.  People  were  obliged  to  sell 
most  of  their  stock,  and  they  killed  others  to  eat.  They 
only  kept  one,  two,  or  three  head,  and  they  had  to  buy 
feed  to  take  care  of  those.  The  cattle  they  sold  went 
for  nearly  nothing.  Some  of  these  cut-throat  fellows 
came  in  and  took  advantage  of  our  necessities,  and 
picked  up  at  small  prices  what  the  farmers  were  obliged 
to  sell.  There  are  always  men  who,  when  they  see  any- 
one in  trouble,  are  ready  to  take  the  last  cent  he's  got. 

"The  railroad  company  built  what  they  called  a 
house  for  each  burned-out  family,  but  it  wasn't  fit  for  a 
dog  to  live  in.  It  was  just  a  slant-roof  shanty,  about 
twelve  by  fourteen  feet,  made  of  one  thickness  of  boards 
and  covered,  roof  and  all,  with  tarred  paper.  During 
the  winter  the  men  got  out  timber  in  order  to  build, 


148      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

and  the  next  spring  most  managed  to  put  up  some  sort 
of  a  decent  dweUing.  Two  years  ago  everybody  was 
doin'  well,  and  you'd  have  to  hunt  a  long  while  before 
you'd  find  a  farm  you  could  buy.  But  that  fire  just 
fixed  us  in  great  shape.  There's  hardly  a  place  now 
that  can't  be  bought,  and  cheap,  too.  It  was  quite  a 
setback  even  for  me,  though  none  of  my  family  were 
hurt  and  none  of  my  buildings  were  burned.  We  had  a 
farmers'  mutual  insurance  company  here,  and  I  had  to 
pay  nearly  two  hundred  dollars  that  year  as  compared 
with  about  five  dollars  on  an  ordinary  year.  My  rail 
fences  were  all  burned  and  I  spent  ninety  dollars  for 
wire  to  replace  'em,  and  my  woodland  was  damaged 
over  two  thousand  dollars.  Practically  the  only  trees 
left  of  any  value  are  the  cedars.  We're  still  getting  them 
out  for  posts  and  railroad  ties.  The  wood  don't  deteri- 
orate rapidly,  and  it  will  be  good  for  a  dozen  years  yet. 

"Fine  forest  covered  all  the  country  when  I  came  here 
in  1878.  I'd  been  living  in  New  York  state,  but  I 
wanted  to  own  a  place  myself,  and  I  didn't  see  much 
chance  there  with  land  a  hundred  and  fifty  to  two 
hundred  dollars  an  acre.  An  older  brother  had  been  up 
here  to  lumber,  and  he  wrote  that  I  could  get  some  good 
farm  land  cheap.  The  company  he  worked  for  had 
bought  the  region  supposing  it  was  pine  land,  but  come 
to  look  at  it  they  found  that  through  here  it  was  all 
hardwood,  which,  at  that  time  brought  no  price  at  all, 
and  they  wanted  to  get  the  land  off  their  hands.    I  took 


Ringing  the  schoolbell 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  149 

forty  acres  at  two  dollars  an  acre  and  paid  twenty 
dollars  down.    That  was  all  the  money  I  had. 

"Twelve  miles  from  here,  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Huron, 
was  a  village,  and  I  came  there  by  boat,  and  carried 
everything  I  needed  the  rest  of  the  way  on  my  back. 
A  few  men  had  settled  here  already  during  the  previous 
year  or  two,  and  I  was  able  to  get  potatoes  of  them,  but 
I  had  to  lug  in  what  other  food  I  needed  and  my  cooking 
utensils  and  blankets  and  a  featherbed.  You'd  think 
the  bed  would  be  too  bulky,  but  I  wrapped  it  up  pretty 
tight.  I've  known  more  than  one  man  to  bring  a  stove 
in  here  on  his  back.  We  couldn't  carry  more'n  enough 
food  to  last  a  week  or  so,  and  then  we'd  go  and  get  a 
fresh  supply  of  flour,  salt  pork,  and  a  few  groceries. 

"In  some  directions  there  was  only  trails,  but  from 
here  to  Alpena  there  was  a  sly  road.  That's  a  road 
chopped  out  and  cleared  up  by  the  settlers  just  wide 
enough  to  go  through  with  an  old  jumper,  which  is  a  kind 
of  rough  sled  that  has  runners  made  of  small  trees  with 
a  natural  crook  in  'em.  The  jumper  did  very  well  to 
sneak  around  on  a  wild  road,  and  if  it  struck  a  stone  or  a 
tree  root,  that  didn't  make  no  difference.  The  sly  road 
was  a  great  help  to  a  man  who  had  a  horse.  He  could 
drag  in  his  stuff  and  not  have  to  carry  it  all  on  his  back. 
The  road  was  crooked  and  took  the  easiest  way,  always 
avoiding  obstructions  and  bad  places.  If  there  was^a 
swamp  it  couldn't  very  well  go  around  they  put  in 
corduroy.  During  most  of  the  year  the  corduroy  was 
fairly  firm,  but  in  the  spring,  or  after  a  heavy  rain,  the 


150      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

logs  were  about  the  same  as  afloat.  You  could  stick  a 
pole  down  into  the  muck  and  not  find  any  bottom 
hardly.  It  was  ticklish  business  then  crossing  the 
corduroy  with  fifty  pounds  of  flour  on  your  back.  The 
logs  would  begin  to  roll,  and  perhaps  off  you'd  go,  but 
you  were  careful  to  watch  out  for  your  flour.  Some- 
times you  went  in  up  to  your  waist.  However,  you'd 
clamber  back  on  the  corduroy  and  go  on  and  think 
nothin'  of  it. 

"  I  got  here  in  the  fall,  and  I  soon  had  some  logs  ready 
to  build  a  house.  The  neighbors  helped  me  one  day 
shaping  the  logs  and  putting  up  the  housewalls.  We 
had  ropes  and  skids,  and  a  man  was  stationed  at  each 
corner  to  chop  the  ends  of  the  logs  so  they'd  fit  together. 
It  was  fifteen  by  twenty-two  feet,  and  you  can  see  the 
building  yet  in  my  barnyard  where  I  use  it  for  a  hen- 
house.. After  the  walls  were  up  I  cut  out  places  for  the 
doors  and  windows  and  put  on  the  roof  myself.  I  didn't 
need  a  chimney.  I  just  ran  a  stovepipe  out  through  the 
roof.  Probably  it  looks  to  you  like  a  hard  and  lonesome 
task  hewing  out  a  home  in  the  wilderness,  but  I  never 
had  any  desire  to  go  back  where  I  come  from. 

"During  the  first  winter  I  slashed  down  some  timber 
which  I  burned  in  the  spring,  and  so  I  got  in  a  chunk  of 
turnips  and  a  patch  of  potatoes.  I  earned  something, 
too,  by  working  at  roadmaking.  The  commissioners 
were  running  a  good  highway  through  here,  and  the 
neighborhood  would  get  together  and  we'd  bid  for  sec- 
tions of  it.    A  path  a  rod  wide  had  to  be  stumped  clear 


A  Michigan  Forest  Fire  151 

and  leveled  off,  and  in  wet  places  we  put  in  corduroy, 
the  sticks  for  which  had  to  be  at  least  six  inches  through 
and  extend  the  full  width  of  the  cleared  strip. 

"We  raised  splendid  crops  on  our  new  land,  and  there 
were  no  weeds  except  fireweed;  but  the  weeds  have 
come  in  since,  and  now  we  have  lots  of  work  fighting 
them.  Mosquitoes  used  to  be  troublesome.  Oh,  them 
mosquitoes!  they  used  to  be  thick  all  over,  but  was 
more  thicker  in  the  swamps.  We  didn't  have  money 
enough  to  buy  fly-netting  to  keep  'em  out  of  our  house. 
They  were  worst  in  May  and  June.  After  sundown 
they'd  start  biting  and  they  didn't  let  you  have  any 
peace  until  nine  or  ten  o'clock.  They  were  bad  again 
in  the  morning,  so  you  couldn't  sleep  after  four  o'clock. 
Often  we'd  drive  'em  out  of  the  house  by  takin'  an  old 
kittle,  putting  a  few  chips  in  it,  and  makin'  a  good 
smoke.  We  make  a  smudge  that  way  on  our  porch 
nowadays,  or  we  couldn't  stand  it  to  sit  out  there  on 
summer  evenings. 

"Deer  were  pretty  thick  the  first  ten  or  twelve  years, 
and  Fve  seen  dozens  of  'em  in  a  flock.  We  had  only  old 
muskets  with  percussion  caps.  If  you  didn't  hit  the 
deer  you  fired  at,  it  would  run  a  little  way  and  stop, 
but  too  far  away  for  your  musket  to  reach  it  with  a 
second  shot.  When  the  modern  rifles  became  common 
they  cleaned  the  deer  out.  We  had  a  few  bears.  I  heard 
the  dogs  barking  one  evening  after  it  was  gettin'  dark, 
and  I  went  out  and  see  some  creature  that  I  thought 
was  a  calf.     I  decided  to  drive  it  back  into  the  woods 


152      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

and  find  the  place  where  It  got  through  the  fence  into 
the  clearing,  but  when  I  came  near  It  the  animal  r'ared 
up  and  showed  his  teeth.  I  knew  he  was  a  bear  then, 
and  I  called  the  dogs  to  sick  him.  While  I  was  tryin'  to 
lay  hands  on  a  stick  for  a  weapon  they  drove  him  ofi^, 
and  he  got  away. 

"We  enjoyed  this  new  country,  and  were  contented 
with  the  simple  things  we  had  to  do  with.  In  those 
days,  If  any  of  us  wanted  to  go  anywhere  within  a  few 
miles  we'd  pick  up  our  feet  and  go.  Now  we  have  to 
have  horses  and  buggies  and  everything  else;  but  at  this 
house  we're  still  old  fashioned  enough  to  walk  back  and 
forth  to  church  a  mile  and  a  half  away,  summer  and 
winter.  As  a  whole,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  wants  of  our 
people  had  multiplied  too  fast,  and  that  we  work 
harder  without  getting  any  more  fun  than  we  used  to 
have  as  pioneers.  Yet  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  fire  that 
has  brought  desolation  and  poverty,  prosperity  would 
be  general  throughout  this  region." 

Note. — ^Most  tourists  would  hardly  care  to  linger  about  Thunder 
Bay  or  in  the  desolation  of  the  region  through  which  recent  forest 
fires  have  raged;  but  there  are  many  little  lakes  and  streams  scat- 
tered about  the  country  that  are  wildly  beautiful  and  furnish  excel- 
lent fishing.  Nor  should  one  forget  the  attractions  of  Lake  Huron, 
of  which  Thunder  Bay  is  an  arm.  It  is  the  most  irregular  of  the 
Great  Lakes  and  its  varied  charm  is  still  further  enhanced  by  the 
presence  of  no  less  than  three  thousand  islands. 


VIII 

THE   STRAITS   OF  MACKINAC 

NORTHERN  Michigan  is  in  many  portions  a 
veritable  paradise  for  the  seeker  after  healthful 
recreation.  Its  abounding  streams,  its  hun- 
dreds of  lakes,  its  clear  bracing  atmosphere,  and  its 
opportunities  for  hunting,  fishing,  canoeing,  sailing,  and 
motor-boating  draw  thither  great  numbers  of  people 
every  summer.  The  resorts  are  many,  but  I  think  the 
most  charming  of  them  all  is  Mackinac  Island,  in  the 
straits  of  the  same  namp,  where  a  narrow  passage  links 
Lake  Michigan  with  Lake  Huron.  The  island  is  about 
three  and  a  half  miles  long  and  two  broad — a  rock-girt 
plateau  sitting  like  an  emerald  gem  amid  the  placid 
waters.  Its  name  was  formerly  spelled  MichiUmackinac, 
which  was  an  Indian  term  meaning  Great  Turtle.  This 
refers  to  a  fancied  resemblance  of  the  island  to  the  back 
of  a  huge  turtle,  as  seen  from  a  distance.  In  the  remote 
past  it  was  a  favorite  sporting  and  camping-ground  of 
various  Indian  tribes,  and  when  the  whites  arrived  it 
became  the  seat  of  justice,  and  base  of  supplies,  and 
center  of  trade  of  a  vast  territory. 

Marquette  wintered  on  the  island  in  1670.  Writing 
from  there,  he  mentions  among  other  things  that,  "This 
place  is  the  most  noted  in  these  regions  for  the  abun- 


154      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

dance  of  its  fishes;  for,  according  to  the  Indian  saying, 
'This  is  the  home  of  the  fishes.'  Elsewhere,  although 
they  exist  in  large  numbers,  is  not  properly  their 
'home.'  " 

He  further  mentions  that,  "The  winds  occasion  no 
small  embarrassment  to  the  fishermen;  for  this  is  the 
central  point  between  the  great  lakes  which  surround  it, 
and  which  seem  incessantly  tossing  ball  at  each  other. 
No  sooner  has  the  wind  ceased  blowing  from  Lake 
Michigan  than  Lake  Huron  hurls  back  the  gale  it  has 
received,  and  Lake  Superior  in  its  turn  sends  forth  its 
blast  from  another  quarter.  Thus  the  game  is  played 
from  one  to  the  other;  and  as  these  lakes  are  of  vast 
extent,  the  winds  cannot  be  otherwise  than  boisterous, 
especially  in  the  autumn." 

The  Straits  generally  freeze  over  about  the  middle 
of  January,  and  continue  closed  until  the  latter  part  of 
April.  Formerly  freight  and  passengers  going  north 
and  south  by  railroad  were  transferred  across  the  ice 
on  sledges,  the  terminals  being  Mackinaw  City  and  St. 
Ignace,  with  a  ten-mile  channel  between.  One  year  a 
railway  track  was  laid  on  the  ice,  and  the  trains  them- 
selves went  across.  Now  two  enormous  train-carrying 
steamers,  equipped  with  special  ice-breaking  apparatus, 
keep  a  path  open  all  winter.  Besides  a  screw  at  the 
stern  to  propel  the  vessel  there  is  one  at  the  bow  which 
sucks  the  water  from  under  the  ice  so  that  the  boat 
climbing  on  the  frozen  mass  breaks  it  down  and  crowds 
it  aside.    Two,  three,  and  even  four  feet  of  blue  ice  have 


A  village  zvayside 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  I5S 

been  crushed  in  this  way.  Only  once  has  the  ice  proved 
a  match  for  the  ice-crusher.  In  the  struggle  the  broken 
cakes  were  piled  so  high  about  the  vessel  that  it  could 
not  be  seen  from  the  shores.  There  it  lay  three  days 
before  the  sister  crusher,  by  breaking  the  surrounding 
ice,  succeeded  in  setting  the  helpless  steamer  free. 
When  the  weather  is  very  bitter  the  two  boats  are  going 
back  and  forth  all  the  time  to  keep  the  path  from  freez- 
ing too  firmly.  These  ice  crushers  are  an  American 
invention,  and  have  been  copied  in  all  northern  waters, 
abroad  as  well  as  in  our  own  land. 

The  summer  climate  of  the  Straits,  and  especially 
that  of  Mackinac  Island,  is  peculiarly  equable.  The 
island  does  not  have  to  endure  the  extreme  heat  of  the 
mainland,  and  so  kindly  is  nature,  and  so  long  are  the 
days,  which,  with  the  twilight,  leave  a  night  of  scarce 
six  hours,  that  both  its  vegetable  and  animal  life  are 
said  to  have  unusual  vigor.  In  support  of  this  claim  it 
is  declared  that  a  Mackinac  hop-vine  has  been  known 
to  grow  eighteen  inches  in  twenty-four  hours. 

I  went  to  the  island  from  Mackinaw  City  in  a  small 
steamer  which  makes  frequent  trips  every  day  during 
the  season.  Occasionally,  however,  there  is  an  inter- 
ruption. "We  had  a  storm  last  Saturday,"  said  one  of 
the  men  on  the  boat,  "and  the  waves  dashed  right  over 
the  Mackinaw  wharf.  No  boats  crossed  the  Straits 
that  day.  The  water  here  is  nine  hundred  feet  deep, 
and  when  you  get  it  stirred  up  it's  doin'  some  business." 

I  observed  that  the  boat  was  equipped  with  two 


156      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

gambling  machines  for  the  entertainment  of  the  passen- 
gers during  the  half  or  three-quarters  of  an  hour  voyage. 
One  was  called  "The  Dewey,"  and  it  bore  a  portrait  of 
the  admiral.  That  seemed  as  vicious  a  misuse  of  a 
respected  name  as  the  posters  I  saw  in  some  of  the  towns 
advertising  "Tolstoi  Cigarettes."  But  I  suppose  a 
manufacturing  concern  or  a  steamship  company  that 
encourages  gambling  cannot  be  expected  to  have  any 
compunctions  about  the  desecration  of  men  who  have 
done  noble  things. 

We  made  for  a  little  harbor  on  the  south  shore  of  the 
island.  The  narrow  level  along  the  crescent  of  the 
harbor  was  crowded  with  buildings,  and  behind  rose 
steep  bluffs  crowned  with  a  stout-walled  old  fort  that 
has  three  blockhouses  to  add  still  further  to  its  stout- 
ness. The  village  with  its  narrow  crooked  streets,  its 
little  churches  and  occasional  quaint  structures  of 
long  ago,  and  that  ancient  fort  on  the  cliff  combine  to 
make  a  scene  that  is  delightfully  picturesque.  You  are 
reminded  of  the  beautiful  seaside  hamlets  of  Europe. 

The  fort  was  begun  by  the  English  in  1780.  When 
completed  three  years  later,  its  commanding  position, 
its  blockhouses,  and  its  ponderous  walls,  surmounted 
by  a  stockade  of  cedar  posts,  made  it  a  most  formidable 
defence  in  the  warfare  of  that  day.  The  stockade  was 
ten  feet  high  and  pierced  by  two  sets  of  loopholes  for 
musketry,  and  the  blockhouses  were  armed  with  small 
iron  cannon.  For  nearly  fourscore  years  the  fort  re- 
tained much  of  its  original  appearance.    Then  a  part  of 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  157 

the  stockade  fell,  and  the  rest  was  removed.  Other- 
wise, the  fort  today  is  still  in  most  essentials  what  it 
was  in  the  beginning,  and  its  sturdy  walls  bid  fair  to 
last  for  centuries. 

The  success  of  the  American  colonies  in  their  war  for 
independence  gave  the  United  States  peaceful  posses- 
sion of  the  fort  not  long  after  it  was  finished,  but  early 
in  the  second  war  with  the  mother  country  one  hundred 
and  thirty-five  English  soldiers  and  about  a  thousand 
Indians  surprised  and  captured  it  without  bloodshed. 
Two  years  later  its  recapture  was  attempted,  and  a 
battle  was  fought  on  the  northern  part  of  the  island. 
The  Americans  were  defeated  with  considerable  loss  in 
killed  and  wounded,  and  they  withdrew.  At  the  close 
of  the  war,  however,  it  was  once  more  transferred  to  the 
United  States.  It  no  longer  has  much  military  value, 
but  it  is  historically  significant  to  a  rare  degree  and  is 
redolent  of  a  martial  past. 

All  around  the  island  steep  limestone  cliffs  front  the 
water,  and  the  rugged  shores  might  be  forbidding  were 
they  not  fringed  with  cedars  and  pines  that  grow  along 
the  beach  and  cling  to  the  steeps.  Most  of  the  upland 
is  covered  with  hardwood.  The  island  is  plentifully 
crisscrossed  with  roads,  and  a  beautiful  drive  encircles 
it  at  the  foot  of  the  cliflts.  When  I  began  to  get  ac- 
quainted with  its  various  features  I  concluded  that  the 
atmosphere  was  conducive  to  sentiment.  Witness,  for 
instance,  such  names  as  "Cupid's  Pathway,"  "Lover's 
Leap,"  "Wishing  Spring,"  and  "Friendship's  Altar." 


158     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Caves,  grottoes,  and  fantastic  rock  formations  abound. 
The  most  famous  of  these  is  "Arch  Rock,"  a  slender, 
graceful  natural  bridge  of  mammoth  proportions.  It 
is  a  part  of  the  lofty  cliffs  on  the  east  side,  a  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  above  the  water.  Among  the  other  limestone 
grotesqueries  are  "Chimney  Rock,"  "The  Devil's 
Kitchen,"  and  "The  Sugar  Loaf."  The  last  is  a  honey- 
combed pinnacle  that  rises  to  a  height  of  ninety  feet, 
amid  the  woods,  not  far  from  Arch  Rock. 

There  is  a  legend  which  declares  that  Mackinac  Island 
was  specially  created  by  one  of  the  Indian  manitous. 
This  god  was  looking  around  the  region  for  a  dwelling- 
place,  but  could  find  none  suitable.  So  he  raised  Mack- 
inac Island  from  the  deeps  of  the  channel,  and  sent  his 
messengers  all  over  the  world  to  inform  the  spirits  of  the 
earth,  air,  and  water  that  here  was  a  place  prepared  for 
them  where  they  could  come  and  rest,  leaving  all  care 
behind.  To  enable  visitors  to  easily  ascend  to  the 
heights  of  the  island  the  manitou  made  the  arched 
gateway.  The  Great  Spirit's  wigwam  was  built  on  the 
plateau  near  by,  but  during  the  years  that  have  elapsed 
since  that  dim  period  the  wigwam  has  turned  to  stone, 
and  is  now  the  rough  yet  symmetrical  cone  known  as 
the  "Sugar  Loaf." 

A  much  higher  pinnacle  is  "Lover's  Leap,"  which 
stands  on  the  shore  and  soars  up  one  hundred  and  forty- 
five  feet.  From  its  top  an  Indian  maiden  is  said  to  have 
watched  day  after  day  for  the  return  of  her  lover  from  a 
war  expedition.    At  last,  word  came  that  he  had  been 


One  of  the  fort  gatezvays 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  if 9 

killed  in  battle,  and  the  distracted  maiden  leaped  from 
the  summit  of  the  rock  and  was  dashed  to  pieces  below. 

Another  interesting  legend  of  Mackinac  is  the  follow- 
ing: The  Ottawas  on  Manitoula  Island  in  Lake  Huron 
were  having  a  great  jubilee  with  feasting  and  dancing  to 
celebrate  a  victory  over  a  Wisconsin  tribe,  when  the 
Iroquois  swept  down  on  them  and  annihilated  all  but 
two.  Those  two,  a  young  man  and  maiden,  escaped. 
It  was  midwinter,  and  they  travelled  over  the  ice  to  the 
island  of  MichiUmackinac  with  their  snowshoes  reversed 
so  that  pursuers  would  think  they  had  gone  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.  They  made  their  hiding-place  in  one  of 
the  island  caves,  selecting  for  their  retreat  the  wildest 
part  of  the  forest.  There  they  lived  in  seclusion,  seldom 
seen,  and  in  time  they  raised  a  family  of  ten  children,  all 
boys.  One  winter  the  entire  family  vanished  in  some 
mysterious  way;  but  they  still  have  a  supernatural 
existence  and  haunt  the  island  woods  and  the  adjacent 
mainland. 

They  have  the  power  to  make  themselves  visible  or 
invisible  as  they  please.  Sometimes  they  will  throw  a 
stone  or  a  war-club  at  a  person  walking  in  a  lonely 
place,  or  they  will  throw  the  missile  at  the  person's  dog 
and  set  him  barking  with  fright.  They  have  been 
known,  even  in  the  daytime,  to  dash  their  clubs  at  an 
Indian  lodge  remote  from  neighbors,  and  their  footsteps 
have  been  heard  going  around  such  wigwams.  At- 
tempts have  been  made  to  track  them  over  the  snow, 
but  they  have  never  been  overtaken.     Occasionally  a 


i6o      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

solitary  Indian  hunter  will,  without  apparent  reason, 
apprehend  some  great  evil  and  be  seized  with  an  un- 
earthly terror  that  makes  him  shiver  from  head  to  foot, 
and  the  hairs  of  his  head  stand  up  like  porcupine  quills. 
Then  he  knows  that  those  wandering  Ottawa  spirits  are 
near.  He  is  benumbed  with  fright,  and  the  sensation  is 
awful;  yet  the  spirits  have  never  done  anyone  serious 
harm.  An  Indian,  when  he  recovers  from  the  spell, 
generally  concludes  that  the  visitation  means  that  the 
spirits  want  something,  and  he  leaves  in  a  convenient 
spot  a  present  of  tobacco,  powder,  or  other  article 
which  he  thinks  they  may  fancy.  If  they  appear  to  a 
person  and  talk  to  him,  that  person  is  ever  afterward 
gifted  with  power  to  foresee  the  future  and  becomes  a 
prophet  to  his  people. 

One  object  of  historical  interest  at  Mackinac  is  a 
hotel  that  is  in  part  the  same  structure  that  was  used  by 
John  Jacob  Astor  in  conducting  his  fur  business.  Astor 
migrated  to  America  from  Germany  in  1784,  and  at 
first  worked  in  a  New  York  bakery.  But  presently  he 
began  in  a  small  way  to  sell  furs  in  the  country  towns 
about  the  city.  He  was  industrious,  prudent,  and 
saving;  and  when  the  American  Fur  Company  was 
chartered  in  1809  Mr.  Astor  became  the  president  and 
principal  shareholder.  Its  operations  at  Mackinac 
covered  a  period  from  181 5  to  1842,  and  during  this 
time  the  little  island  in  the  straits  was  the  chief  center 
of  the  fur  company's  trade  and  activity.  Three  million 
dollars'  worth  of  merchandise  was  annually  exchanged 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  l6l 

for  furs  in  the  Indian  country.  But  gradually  those 
pathfinders  of  the  wilderness,  the  fur-traders,  were 
driven  out  by  the  lumbermen,  who  roughly  prepared 
the  region  for  their  successors,  the  pioneer  farmers,  and 
by  1835  the  fur  business  was  seriously  on  the  wane. 
After  the  winding  up  of  the  affairs  of  the  American 
Fur  Company,  individual  merchants  at  Mackinac  con- 
tinued the  fur  trade,  but  it  constantly  declined  until  it 
entirely  disappeared  from  the  island. 

Meanwhile  the  fishing  business  had  become  increas- 
ingly important.  Whitefish  and  trout  in  small  quan- 
tities began  to  be  sent  to  the  Buffalo  market  about  1824. 
More  and  more  were  shipped  as  the  years  passed,  and 
all  the  fishing  grounds  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
around  brought  their  catch  to  Mackinac  to  be  sorted, 
salted  and  packed. 

Mackinac's  record  as  a  pleasure  resort  dates  back  to 
1842,  when  a  few  Southern  families  began  to  summer  on 
the  island.  They  brought  their  slaves  with  them  and 
often  came  as  early  as  June  and  stayed  until  November. 
Year  after  year,  the  vacation  tourists  became  more 
numerous,  and  now  the  caring  for  them  is  the  chief 
business  of  the  town.  The  inhabitants  number  about 
eight  hundred,  and  I  was  told  that  all  but  three  of  the 
families  are  intermarried.  A  peculiar  result  of  this 
relationship  is  that  while  they  quarrel  freely  among 
themselves,  yet  if  any  individual  has  a  disagreement 
with  an  outsider  they  are  all  united  against  the  latter, 
no  matter  what  the  merits  of  the  case  may  be. 


l62      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

The  most  unsatisfactory  phase  of  the  tourist  business 
is  the  shortness  of  the  season.  "Our  hotels  don't  com- 
mence to  really  fill  up  till  August,"  said  an  elderly 
citizen  with  whom  I  chatted  as  he  was  loitering  on  one 
of  the  wharves,  "and  the  rush  don't  last  much  more 
than  a  month.  If  we  get  a  cold  east  wind  in  early  Sep- 
tember our  visitors  think  they  might  as  well  go  home, 
though  they  ought  to  know  the  weather'll  take  a  turn 
and  give  'em  a  scorching  where  they  live. 

"One  of  our  troubles  is  that  we  get  such  poor  help. 
We  have  to  apply  to  the  employment  agencies  in  the 
big  cities,  and  they  send  summer  resorts  like  this  a  lot  of 
rowdies  and  nigger  wenches  who  can't  get  work  any- 
where else.  The  help  are  mean.  You  can't  depend  on 
'em.  While  boarders  are  few  they  seem  satisfied,  but 
when  your  house  fills  up,  and  you've  got  something  for 
'em  to  do,  they're  ready  to  leave  you.  You're  in  a  fix 
then,  for  you  can't  go  right  out  here  and  replace  'em. 
What  they're  here  for  is  a  good  time.  You  take  the  men 
servants  at  the  hotels  and  the  drivers  of  the  seventy  or 
eighty  rigs  that  are  on  the  street  in  summer,  they  get 
good  wages,  but  they  don't  save  nothing.  They  want 
to  carouse  all  night,  and  the  only  business  that  is  the 
better  for  their  being  here  is  that  of  the  saloon-keepers. 
The  person  who  carries  on  in  such  a  way  may  pass  with 
his  comrades  for  'a  darn  good  feller,'  but  that's  only 
a  nickname  for  a  blame  fool. 

"People  who've  travelled  this  country  all  over  say 
they've  never  seen  anything  prettier  than  this  island. 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  163 

Besides,  the  air  is  pure  always.  You  don't  have  to 
swallow  any  coal  smoke.  The  land  is  dry  and  high,  and 
there  are  no  swamps,  marshes,  or  frog-ponds.  We  have 
a  few  small  green  frogs  on  the  island,  but  I  hain't  heard 
one  sing  this  summer.  Over  on  the  mainland  there  are 
places  where  they  begin  to  sing  at  four  in  the  afternoon 
and  keep  at  it  till  midnight.  I  know  just  one  spot  back 
by  a  little  brook  where  a  few  mosquitoes  breed,  but 
they're  very  scarce  here.  It  gets  hot  sometimes,  yet  the 
island  is  surrounded  with  such  a  body  of  water  that  we 
get  cool  air  if  there's  any  breeze  stirring,  and  our  nights 
are  always  comfortable. 

"I've  been  here  sixty  years.  My  folks  came  from 
Ireland  when  I  was  seven  years  old.  They  crossed  the 
ocean  to  Canada  and  went  on  through  the  Great  Lakes 
as  far  as  Chicago.  That  was  in  the  fall  of  1848.  Chi- 
cago wasn't  much  of  a  place  then.  No,  it  was  a  regular 
mudhole.  The  river  there  was  narrow  and  shallow,  and 
the  vessels  that  put  into  it  couldn't  turn  around,  but 
had  to  back  out  down  to  the  lake.  They  were  mostly 
sailing-vessels,  but  there  were  a  few  small  sidewheel 
steamers.  On  the  business  streets  were  quite  a  number 
of  good  brick  buildings.  The  rest  were  small  wooden 
structures,  some  of  logs.  One  man  had  a  little  log  cabin 
right  on  the  bank  of  the  river  near  its  mouth.  When  the 
authorities  wanted  to  improve  the  harbor  he  wouldn't 
sell,  and  they  dredged  right  around  him  and  left  his 
cabin  on  an  island.  It  was  a  low,  marshy  region,  and 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  ague  and  malaria.    The  streets 


164      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

were  so  muddy  it  was  as  much  as  the  farmers  could  do 
to  get  through  'em  with  their  wagons;  and  a  half  mile 
out  from  the  city  center  took  you  onto  prairie. 

"We  came  here  the  next  year  on  account  of  the 
cholera,  which  had  got  into  Chicago.  Nearly  every 
boat  that  passed  through  the  Straits  had  on  it  some 
dead  with  the  disease,  especially  emigrant  boats  from 
the  eastern  end  of  the  lakes.  The  islanders  were  too 
afraid  of  the  cholera  to  let  'em  make  any  burials  here, 
but  the  bodies  had  to  be  buried  somewhere.  So  the 
sailors  would  take  'em  ashore  in  a  boat  and  bury  'em 
on  the  lonely  beaches.  Round  Island,  just  south  of  us, 
was  uninhabited,  and  a  good  many  were  buried  there. 

"The  buildings  here  were  mostly  of  logs.  We  had  no 
sawmill  until  twenty-five  years  later,  but  a  good  deal 
of  lumber  was  whip-sawed.  Of  the  thousand  or  more 
inhabitants  the  biggest  part  was  Indians  and  half- 
breeds.  There  were  only  ten  or  twelve  white  families. 
Nothing  much  was  grown  here  except  on  one  farm  in  the 
north  part  of  the  island.  That  farm  is  still  cultivated. 
The  early  owners  raised  a  good  deal  of  hay,  but  the 
later  farmers  haven't.  It's  too  much  like  work — that's 
just  the  way  it  goes. 

"Four  or  five  small  docks  reached  out  into  the  water 
from  the  settlement,  and  there  wasn't  another  dock 
between  Buffalo  and  Chicago.  The  vessels  all  used  to 
stop  to  buy  supplies,  and  some  would  leave  goods  and 
take  on  furs  and  fish.  The  steamers  loaded  up  with 
wood.    Their  engines  didn't  burn  coal  then,  and  they 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  165 

couldn't  have  carried  enough  wood  to  make  one  of  their 
long  trips  without  so  crowding  the  decks  that  there 
wouldn't  have  been  the  necessary  room  for  passengers 
and  cargo.  They  had  to  stop  along  to  take  on  a  fresh 
supply,  and  often  were  obliged  to  pay  an  exorbitant 
price.  I've  seen  the  decks  so  piled  up  with  wood  that 
even  the  windows  of  the  staterooms  were  darkened. 
We  cut  considerable  wood  for  the  steamers  right  on  the 
island,  but  most  of  it  was  brought  from  the  other  islands 
and  the  mainland.  Some  eight  or  ten  scows  carrying 
from  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  cords  to  a  load 
were  hauling  it  every  day.  They  were  flat-boats  with 
sails,  and  they  didn't  draw  over  four  feet  of  water,  so 
they  could  go  right  in  on  the  bank  to  load.  The  men 
went  where  they  pleased  on  government  land  to  cut  the 
wood,  and  it  didn't  cost  them  anything. 

"Indians  were  numerous  in  the  region,  and  they  had 
little  villages  all  along  the  lake  shores.  Usually  they 
did  their  hunting  with  flintlock  guns  bought  from  the 
traders,  but  a  good  many  continued  to  use  just  such 
bows  and  arrows  as  their  ancestors  carried.  The  bows 
were  six  or  seven  feet  long,  and  the  arrows  were  stone- 
pointed.  They  raised  a  good  deal  of  corn,  they  shot 
and  trapped  game,  and  they  caught  fish.  They  could 
ketch  all  the  fish  they  wanted  anywhere  they  went  to, 
either  by  setting  a  net  over  night  in  the  lake,  or  by 
going  up  the  rivers  and  spearing  'em.  The  squaws  did 
all  the  home  work,  and  it  was  they  who  went  out  in  the 


i66      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

woods  and  got  a  bundle  of  sticks,  when  there  was  need, 
and  built  a  little  fire  to  cook  in  the  wigwam. 

"The  Indians  came  here  from  all  around  to  trade. 
They  brought  furs — mostly  mink,  fox,  and  otter,  with 
some  bear  and  lynx  skins — and  they  brought  fish. 
Another  thing  they  brought  to  sell  was  deerskin  mocca- 
sins they'd  made.  The  Indians  were  very  expert  in 
tanning  deerhide.  They  wore  moccasins  all  through 
the  year  and  never  would  buy  shoes  or  boots.  Many 
of  the  whites  wore  moccasins  in  winter,  and  I've  wore 
'em  myself.  I'd  wrap  up  my  feet  in  blanket  nips,  pull 
on  moccasins,  and  nothing  could  be  better  to  walk  in 
dry  snow,  or  to  wear  if  I  was  going  somewhere  in  a 
sleigh.  They  were  about  the  only  thing  that  snowshoes 
would  go  well  with,  for  cowhide  footwear  was  too  stiff. 

"The  government  made  a  money  payment  here  to 
the  Indians  each  year  in  the  fall,  and  sometimes  we'd 
have  as  high  as  three  or  four  thousand  of  'em 
camped  by  the  shore.  The  stores  were  well  back  from 
the  water,  and  there  was  a  strip  of  gravelly  beach  a  mile 
long,  yes,  every  bit  of  that,  where  they  could  set  up 
their  wigwams  two  or  three  deep.  It  wasn't  just  the 
men  that  came — it  was  whole  families,  cats,  dogs,  and 
all;  and  the  braves  were  in  their  war  paint  and  feathers 
— oh,  they  were  savage-lookin'  fellers!  But  they  were 
peaceable.  One  white  man  could  scare  a  dozen  of  'em. 
In  fact,  the  white  men  were  more  bother  to  the  Indians 
than  the  Indians  were  to  the  white  men. 

"They  brought  their  camp  fixings  right  in  the  canoe — 


Starting  Jor  the  fishing  grounds 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  167 

you  bet  they  did! — and  they'd  have  the  wigwam  up  in 
twenty  minutes.  The  squaws  attended  to  that  while 
the  men  unloaded  the  boat.  The  framework  of  a  wig- 
wam was  of  poles  set  up  cone-fashion,  and  the  covering 
was  birch-bark.  Pieces  of  bark  were  stripped  from  the 
trees,  and  while  still  green  were  stitched  together  with 
basswood  cords  to  make  larger  pieces.  The  cords  were 
made  of  the  inside  bark,  which  can  be  separated  into 
long  tough  strands.  All  the  birch  bark  needed  for  a 
cabin  could  be  rolled  up  tight  and  tied,  and  it  wouldn't 
take  up  any  more  room  than  a  barrel. 

"Their  canoes  were  of  birch-bark,  too,  and  they  were 
staunch  and  water-tight.  They  melted  gum  from  pine 
trees  to  put  on  the  seams  and  any  flaws,  and  it  was  just 
as  tough  as  wax.  The  inside  of  the  canoe  was  lined  with 
cedar  strips,  very  thin  and  pliable.  It  was  wood  so 
straight-grained  it  would  split  in  strips  like  a  ribbon 
ten  feet  long,  if  you  chose.  There  are  not  many  such 
cedars  left,  and  there  were  not  many  in  those  times,  but 
the  Indians  found  them.  The  owner  of  a  canoe  was 
very  careful  not  to  drag  it  on  a  stony  shore.  He'd  pick 
it  up  and  carry  it,  and  when  not  in  use  he'd  turn  it 
bottom  up  and  shield  it  from  the  sun  with  a  covering  of 
cedar  bark.  The  material  wouldn't  rot  or  wear  out  very 
easy,  and  if  properly  cared  for  a  canoe  might  be  good 
for  twenty  years.  The  canoes  were  very  buoyant  and 
I've  seen  'em  big  enough  to  carry  a  family  of  eight  or 
ten  with  all  their  household  goods. 

"Sometimes  the  Indians  would  be  here  for  a  week 


1 68      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

waiting  for  their  pay,  and  when  it  was  distributed  they'd 
get  about  fourteen  dollars  a  head,  big  and  little.  Most 
of  it  was  already  due  the  merchants  who'd  sold  'em 
goods.  The  Indians  were  very  honest  in  those  times, 
but  they're  not  now.  They're  getting  a  little  too  much 
white  in  'em.  Then,  they'd  come  right  in  and  pay  when 
the  government  settled  with  'em,  and  if  there  were  any 
who  didn't  do  so  the  merchant  would  send  out  a 
clerk  to  take  the  money  away  from  'em.  They  never 
went  away  with  any.  They'd  buy  provisions  and 
pork,  and  they'd  buy  blankets.  All  of  'em  wore  those 
white  blankets,  and  you  couldn't  hardly  tell  a  man 
from  a  woman.  The  blankets  were  thick  and  good. 
When  you  got  a  blanket  then,  you  got  one.  Indians 
were  ready  customers  for  beads  and  imitation  silver 
breast-pieces  all  strung  with  little  bells,  and  they'd  buy 
lots  of  ear-rings  and  finger  rings.  The  rings  were  mostly 
brass,  but  they'd  buy  'em,  and  any  other  trinkets,  and 
all  at  a  big  profit  to  the  dealers. 

"The  stores  didn't  have  to  pay  a  license  to  sell  liquor, 
and  the  price  was  three  cents  a  glass.  An  Indian  would 
buy  a  gallon  to  take  home  with  him.  Perhaps,  in  order 
to  have  his  good  time  with  the  least  delay,  and  not  to  be 
troubled  by  the  whites  while  he  was  having  it,  he  packed 
his  goods  in  his  canoe  and  went  around  to  the  back  of 
the  island.  There  he'd  put  up  his  wigwam  and  stay  as 
long  as  the  whiskey  lasted. 

"More  or  less  Indians  were  coming  and  going  at  all 
seasons.    In  winter  they  crossed  from  the  mainland  with 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  169 

dog  sleighs  on  the  ice.  The  dogs  were  black  and  brindle 
and  white  and  every  other  color,  but  they  all  had  short 
hair.  They  were  hitched  tandem,  from  two  to  four  to  a 
sleigh.  The  sleigh  was  like  a  toboggan,  about  eight  feet 
long  and  fourteen  inches  wide,  and  those  flat  concerns 
would  go  right  on  top  of  the  snow.  So  would  the  In- 
dians with  their  snowshoes,  but  the  dogs  sunk  In  some. 
A  strip  of  canvas  was  tacked  along  each  side  of  the 
sledge  and  folded  over  the  load,  and  the  canvas  was 
made  fast  by  a  crisscrossing  of  cords.  Even  if  the  sleigh 
capsized  'twouldn't  make  any  difference,  and  the  wrap- 
pings were  so  secure  a  man  could  pick  it  up  like  a  log  if 
he  wanted  to  and  carry  It  on  his  shoulder.  One  Indian 
always  walked  ahead,  and  there'd  usually  be  one  or  two 
following  behind. 

"Quite  a  number  of  whites  had  squaw  wives.  You 
might  be  surprised  that  a  white  man  of  any  sense  would 
marry  a  squaw,  but  white  women  were  scarce,  and  even 
the  old  merchants  who  owned  a  good  deal  of  the  town 
married  squaws.  The  worst  thing  about  the  arrange- 
ment was  that  the  children  of  such  couples  never 
amounted  to  much.  They  grew  up  careless,  too  much 
after  the  Indian  way,  and  were  not  as  good  as  either  of 
their  parents.  They  weren't  trustworthy,  and  they 
weren't  thrifty.  After  the  father  died  they  just  lived 
high  while  the  property  lasted,  and  then  had  to  move  to 
humbler  quarters.  Take  it  all  through,  girls  as  well  as 
boys,  they  were  a  worthless  set. 

"But  a  squaw  made  the  best  kind  of  a  wife  for  a 


170      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

fisherman.  He  could  put  her  in  a  boat  and  take  her  off 
and  camp,  and  she  was  at  home  there.  She  understood 
tending  to  nets  and  was  a  great  help.  As  a  rule  the 
squaw  wives  were  neat,  and  they  were  very  good  in 
cookin'  pork,  beans,  corn,  and  fish,  but  they  never 
could  make  good  bread.  Their  bread  was  mostly 
always  sad — they  used  saleratus,  and  the  bread  wasn't 
light.  It  was  in  the  form  of  a  cake  eight  or  ten  inches  in 
diameter  that  filled  the  pan,  and  it  was  baked  right 
before  the  fire  with  coals  drawn  out  under  it.  When  it 
was  nearly  baked  they  turned  it  over.  It  was  heavy, 
but  I've  noticed  if  a  feller  was  real  hungry  it  tasted  all 
right.  Wunst,  when  three  of  us  were  out  in  a  sailboat, 
a  gale  of  wind  drove  us  ashore,  and  we  made  a  landing 
at  an  Indian  village.  One  of  the  Indians  had  a  log 
shanty,  but  he  was  livin'  in  a  wigwam  in  the  yard. 
A  good  many  Indians  did  that  way — they'd  have  a 
little  log  house  which  they'd  keep  nicely  done  up  during 
the  summer  while  they  occupied  a  wigwam.  This 
Indian  give  us  the  use  of  his  cabin  for  the  night  and 
furnished  us  with  food.  They  were  very  good  that  way. 
They  were  so  hospitable  they'd  give  you  anything  they 
had." 

My  companion  now  turned  his  steps  homeward 
while  I  lingered  on  the  wharf  watching  a  squad  of  big, 
handsome  fish  that  were  swimming  leisurely  about  deep 
down  in  the  clear  water.  But  after  a  time  I,  too,  went 
up  to  the  village.  On  its  farther  borders,  half  way  up 
the  slope  toward  the  old  fort,  was  an  ancient  weather- 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  171 

beaten  house,  high  in  front,  but  slanting  down  at  the 
back  to  a  low  leanto.  The  older  portion  was  of  logs, 
though  these  were  clapboarded  from  sight,  and  this  part 
dated  back  almost  to  the  time  when  the  fort  itself  was 
built.  Behind  the  house  was  a  patch  of  cultivated  land 
where  its  thrifty  German  occupants  raised  great  quan- 
tities of  produce  for  the  hotels.  I  got  acquainted  with 
the  family  and  spent  an  evening  in  one  of  the  rude, 
low-ceiled  rooms.  The  head  of  the  household  was  both 
a  fisherman  and  a  farmer,  but  his  farming  was  chiefly 
done  on  the  large  adjacent  island  of  Bois  Blanc,  a  name 
that  is  locally  condensed  to  Bobloe. 

I  mentioned  that  the  house  dog  had  threatened  to 
nip  me  when  I  came  in  at  the  gate,  and  my  host  said: 
"I'll  tell  you  the  easiest  way  to  scare  a  dog  that  don't 
behave  himself.  Take  your  cap  in  your  mouth  and 
crouch  down  in  front  of  him.  He  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  that,  and  he'll  give  a  yell  out  of  him,  put  his 
tail  between  his  legs,  and  go.  Sixty  miles  an  hour  is 
nothing,  and  he'll  never  stop." 

My  host  had  at  one  time  been  a  deputy  game  warden 
and  he  related  some  of  his  experiences.  "The  law  itself 
is  not  always  reasonable,"  said  he.  "It  used  to  be  that 
you  couldn't  'sell,  barter,  or  give  away,'  fish  under  a 
certain  size.  Yet  you  will  ketch  under  sized  fish  in  spite 
of  the  dickens,  no  matter  if  the  mesh  of  your  net  is 
large  enough  to  let  'em  through.  You  were  liable  to  a 
fine  if  you  threw  'em  back  in  the  water,  and  you  were 
liable  to  a  fine  if  you  brought  them  ashore.    What  could 


172      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

you  do — send  'em  away  In  a  balloon?  But  a  new  law 
allows  you  to  have  ten  per  cent  of  under  sized  fish  in 
your  possession. 

"One  time  there  was  a  complaint  that  the  fish  were 
being  speared  in  a  certain  lake  over  on  the  mainland. 
The  lawbreakers  weren't  just  gettin'  a  mess  to  eat,  but 
they  were  doin'  the  spearin'  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  would 
leave  the  fish  on  the  shore,  I  went  to  the  lake  with  the 
head  warden  one  evening  to  put  a  stop  to  such  reck- 
lessness. We  drove  there  in  a  buggy  through  the  woods, 
six  miles.  Then  we  hitched  our  horse,  got  a  boat,  and 
lay  in  wait  near  the  mouth  of  a  stream.  By  and  by  we 
see  a  jack-light  and  heard  the  sound  of  oars,  and  pretty 
soon  we  made  out  there  were  three  men  in  the  boat. 
We  run  in  between  'em  and  the  shore.  They  saw  us  and 
put  out  the  light  and  started  for  the  middle  of  the  lake 
with  us  after  'em.  I  was  rowing.  We  hadn't  gone  far 
when  we  heard  a  gunshot,  and  a  bullet  whistled  past 
near  my  head.  Then  I  gave  'em  a  shot  from  my  pistol. 
If  I'd  had  a  rifle  I'd  have  got  one  of  'em,  for  I'd  have 
shot  to  kill — my  gosh,  yes!  I  was  mad,  and  I  rowed 
after  'em  as  fast  as  I  could  go.  I'd  have  followed  'em 
to  hell  and  back  before  I'd  have  let  'em  escape.  All  the 
time  I  was  gaining,  but  I  rowed  four  miles  before  they 
stopped.  We  came  along  side.  'Who  are  you.^"  we 
said,  gripping  their  boat. 

"Not  a  word.     'Been  fishing.'" 

'*Not  a  word  any  more'n  if  they'd  been  deef  and 
dumb.    They'd  thrown  their  spear  and  jack-light  over- 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  173 

board,  but  I  flashed  our  light  into  the  bottom  of  their 
boat,  and  there  lay  a  bass  with  the  marks  of  five  prongs 
on  it.  I  reached  over  and  picked  it  up.  'AH  right,'  I 
says, '  that's  enough.  You  blasted  fools,  if  you'd  thrown 
that  bass  into  the  water  we  wouldn't  have  had  any 
proof — we  couldn't  have  done  nothing.' 

"They  wouldn't  speak,  they  wouldn't  move,  and  I 
had  to  tow  their  boat  back.  We'd  got  almost  to  shore 
before  they  opened  their  mouths  and  began  to  be  kind  o' 
decent.  We  could  have  arrested  'em  and  taken  'em 
to  town;  but  how.?  We  had  only  a  buggy.  That 
wouldn't  carry  all  of  us,  and  six  miles  was  a  long  walk. 
So  we  said,  'We'll  let  you  go  if  you'll  appear  at  court 
Monday  morning.' 

"  'We'll  be  there, '  they  said,  and  we  parted  company. 

"The  game  warden  and  I  took  along  the  fish  and  kept 
it  on  ice  so  we  could  produce  it  as  evidence.  Monday  I 
went  to  town,  and  in  the  first  saloon  I  come  to  I  see  those 
three  fellows.  They  called  me  in  and  treated  me  and 
asked  what  they'd  better  do.  Well,  the  game  warden, 
he  didn't  want  any  row,  he  didn't  like  to  make  any 
enemies.  An  election  was  coming  and  he  needed  votes, 
and  I  said,  'Now,  boys,  the  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to 
plead  guilty,  and  we'll  let  you  off  easy.' 

"We  went  to  the  court,  and  the  game  warden  and  I 
told  how  we'd  caught  'em  with  that  speared  fish  in  their 
boat.  'Gentlemen,'  says  the  judge,  turning  to  the 
accused  men,  'how  is  that.^" 

"  'Guilty,'  they  says,  and  he  fined  'em  eight  dollars 
and  sixty-five  cents  apiece. 


174     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"They  paid,  and  the  whole  bunch,  judge  and  all, 
went  back  to  the  saloon  as  sociable  as  you  please.  We 
could  have  soaked  'em  for  shooting,  but  that's  a  part  of 
the  game.  You  have  to  stand  for  that.  If  you  are  an 
officer  and  try  to  enforce  the  law,  there  are  times  when 
you  carry  your  life  In  your  hand.  If  anybody  in  this 
wild  region  has  got  it  In  for  you  he  only  needs  to  stand 
way  back  in  the  bush  with  his  gun  when  you're  passing 
in  some  lonely  place — and  if  a  bullet  comes — well, 
whose  was  it.^  Why,  good  Lord,  man!  those  bullets 
never  tell — they're  all  alike.  So  there's  many  a  game 
warden  who  never  leaves  town,  but  just  hangs  around. 
They're  born  cowards. 

"Speaking  of  fishing,  did  you  ever  go  ketching  shiners 
on  a  moonlight  night  in  the  spring  when  they're  running 
up  the  brooks  to  the  ponds  to  spawn.?  They  start 
about  sundown,  and  go  up  little  brooks  no  more  than 
two  feet  wide.  There  are  regular  droves,  and  they  ruffle 
the  water  In  their  hurry  and  leap  out  and  fall  back.  It's 
a  pretty  sight.  You  take  a  bag,  fit  a  hoop  Into  it  to 
keep  it  open,  and  set  it  near  the  mouth  of  a  brook.  Then 
you  go  up  a  short  distance  and  return,  hitting  the  water 
with  a  switch.  If  It's  dark  you  carry  a  lantern.  Maybe 
you'll  get  half  a  bushel  of  the  shiners  at  one  drive. 
They  keep  running  up  until  about  midnight,  and  then 
there's  just  as  many  running  the  other  way;  but  those 
going  down  have  spawned  and  are  soft-fleshed.  We 
put  'em  up  In  mustard  or  olive  oil  to  eat  later. 

"About  ten  days  after  those  little  fellers  have  left  the 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  175 

ponds  the  suckers  start  to  run.  They  go  in  the  night, 
the  same  as  the  shiners,  and  they  fill  the  brook  full  and 
pile  up  on  each  other.  You  can  hear  'em  splash  and 
skirmish.  Some  of  'em  weigh  as  high  as  four  pounds. 
We  throw  'em  out  with  pitchforks  or  with  our  hands. 
They  are  very  nice  when  they  come  out  of  cold  water, 
but  are  the  boniest  fish  in  the  lakes.  They  used  to  be 
called  'Family  whitefish,'  after  they  got  to  Chicago. 
However,  since  the  new  food  law  has  been  put  in  force 
that  fake  business  has  been  dropped. 

"In  winter  we  fish  quite  a  little  through  the  ice. 
That's  dangerous  sometimes.  Last  March,  while  a 
couple  of  Mackinac  half-breeds  were  out  on  the  ice 
at  the  fishing  grounds  about  two  miles  from  the  village, 
a  great  big  floe  broke  off  with  them  on  it.  There  was  a 
fierce  snowstorm  at  the  time,  and  they  didn't  notice 
that  they  were  afloat  till  their  lines  began  to  drag,  and 
then  the  crack  was  too  wide  to  jump.  That  was  about 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  wind  carried  'em  ten 
miles  east  to  where  they  got  into  a  current  that  brought 
'em  back  eight  miles  toward  Bobloe  Island.  Each  had 
a  sledge  drawn  by  two  dogs,  and  they  made  the  dogs 
run  and  they  ran  themselves  to  keep  from  freezing. 
They  must  have  gone  twenty-five  or  thirty  miles  run- 
ning that  day.  The  situation  was  getting  more  alarm- 
ing all  the  time  because  the  floe  was  breaking  up. 

"I  was  on  Bobloe  Island  at  my  farm,  and  I  saw  the 
men  on  the  ice  cake,  but  it  would  be  only  for  a  few 


176      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

moments  at  a  time.  Then  the  storm  would  thicken  and 
hide  then.  A  rowboat  couldn't  go  to  them.  The  waves 
and  the  pieces  of  ice  would  have  smashed  it,  and  I  could 
only  watch.  The  snow  froze  stiff  on  my  mustache  as 
soon  as  I  stepped  out,  and  I  couldn't  keep  my  eyes  open. 
I  thought  the  two  men  were  sure  gone.  The  ice  cake 
drifted  on  till  it  touched  the  shore,  and  then  the  waves 
began  to  wash  across  it.  One  of  the  men  had  kneeled 
down  to  pray,  but  the  other  told  him  to  cut  that  out 
till  they  got  to  land.  So  they  made  a  running  jump  to 
the  shore,  and  the  dogs  followed  with  the  sleighs. 
An  instant  later  the  ice  cake  drifted  away  into  the 
storm.  They  hadn't  lost  anything.  They  even  had 
some  fish  in  the  sleighs;  but  the  dogs  were  so  played  out 
they  dropped  right  down;  and  I  tell  you  the  men  done 
some  eating  when  they  got  to  my  house,  and  don't  you 
forget  it. 

"There's  others  besides  fishermen  have  adventures 
on  the  ice.  The  people  on  Mackinac  get  a  good  deal  of 
wood  from  Round  Island  in  the  winter.  Late  one  after- 
noon a  man  started  from  there  with  his  load.  A  storm 
had  begun,  and  it  soon  got  so  dark  he  couldn't  see  his 
hand  before  his  eyes.  If  he'd  let  his  horse  go  he'd  been 
all  right,  but  he  thought  it  hadn't  taken  the  proper 
direction,  and  he  pulled  it  out  of  the  track.  Hour  after 
hour  he  kept  on  without  getting  anywhere,  and  he 
gradually  threw  off  wood  from  his  sled  to  lighten  up  till 
there  was  none  left.  He  was  travelling  all  night  and  in 
the  morning  found  he'd  been  circling  Round  Island, 


The  Straits  of  Mackinac  177 

following  his  own  tracks.  His  feet,  hands  and  kneecaps 
were  frozen.  Oh!  you  want  to  get  a  move  on  if  you're 
out  on  the  ice  and  see  a  storm  threatening. 

"In  the  spring  when  the  Ice  begins  to  soften  there's 
danger  of  breaking  through,  and  the  woodteams  each 
carry  a  rope  with  a  sllpnoose  at  one  end  so  if  the  horse 
gets  In  they  can  put  the  rope  around  his  neck  and  pull 
him  out.  We  get  in  ourselves  once  in  a  while,  too.  I 
fell  through  up  to  my  neck  once,  but  I  soon  got  out. 
Then  I  pulled  off  the  big  rubber  boots  I  had  on  and 
emptied  out  the  water,  all  except  a  little,  and  started 
on  a  dog  trot  for  home.  My  stockings  would  have 
frozen  stiff  if  I  hadn't  left  any  water  in  the  boots  to  keep 
working  around.  When  I  reached  home  and  got  into 
dry  clothes  I  was  fine  as  a  chipmunk. 

"But  such  things  are  nothing — they  happen  every 
winter.  We  all  take  chances,  and  the  people  here  will 
do  whatever  they  can  to  help  a  person  in  danger,  even  to 
risking  their  own  lives.  We  feel  more  responsibility  for 
each  other,  I  suppose,  because  we  are  so  isolated.  It's 
not  just  danger  that  will  stir  us  to  help,  but  we'll  all 
club  together  to  make  comfortable  anybody  who's 
suffering  from  poverty.  Oh,  Mackinac  isn't  simply  a 
good  place  for  outsiders  to  spend  the  summer — it's  a 
good  place  to  live  all  the  year." 

Note. — Of  all  the  Great  Lakes  resorts  I  think  the  Straits  of 
Mackinac  have  the  finest  combination  of  scenic,  historic  and 
climatic  attraction.  Mackinac  Island,  with  its  tiny  harbor,  quaint 
village  and  old  fort,  and  its  castellated  rocks  that  front  the  water,  is 


178      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

a  gem.  Besides  the  stirring  story  of  its  past  there  is  a  great  variety 
of  legendary  lore  that  appeals  to  the  imagination  and  increases  the 
sojourner's  enjoyment.  Fishing  and  sailing  can  be  had  here  at  their 
best.  For  a  little  while  in  midsummer  the  island  is  crowded,  and 
those  who  desire  to  visit  it  with  most  comfort  would  do  well  to 
select  some  other  month  than  August.  Accommodations  vary  from 
the  sumptuous  and  expensive  in  the  fine  hotels  to  the  simplicity  and 
moderate  charges  of  the  boarding-houses. 

All  visitors  will  be  interested  to  recall  that  on  the  mainland,  at 
Mackinaw  City,  occurred  one  of  the  most  dismal  of  Indian  massa- 
cres. This  is  fascinatingly  described  in  Parkman's  "The  Conspiracy 
of  Pontiac." 

It  is  also  of  interest  to  know  that  a  representation  of  the  story  of 
Hiawatha,  which  is  a  narrative  of  the  Ojibways,  is  given  each  year 
by  these  Indians  near  Petosky  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Michigan  about 
forty  miles  south  of  the  Straits  of  Mackinac.  Here  on  a  wooded 
point  are  the  tepees  of  an  Indian  village,  and  on  the  margin  of  a 
landlocked  bay  with  the  forest  for  a  background  the  scenes  of  the 
play  are  enacted  on  nature's  own  stage.  The  spot  is  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  Ojibway  country,  and  from  a  remote  past  these  Indians 
have  hunted  and  fished  and  fought  in  this  vicinity,  and  they  are 
proud  of  their  early  legends  which  the  poet  has  woven  into  verse. 
It  is  said  that  they  render  the  play  with  great  skill  and  charm.  The 
play  is  given  on  every  pleasant  day  through  the  month  of  August. 

Some  of  the  most  attractive  of  Lake  Michigan's  resorts  are  in  this 
vicinity  on  Grand  Traverse  Bay  and  Little  Traverse  Bay. 

Out  in  the  lake  to  the  north  is  Beaver  Island  which  is  worth  visit- 
ing because  of  its  fame  as  the  one-time  stronghold  of  King  Strang 
and  his  Mormons.  It  is  an  island  where  piracy  once  flourished  with 
the  result  that  more  than  one  vessel  met  a  mysterious  and  tragic 
end  at  the  hands  of  buccaneers  as  bloodthirsty  as  any  that  ever 
roamed  the  South  Seas.  As  one  of  the  Mackinac  residents  expressed 
it,  "They  had  all  sorts  of  rows  and  rumpuses  there,  fighting  and 
shooting,  and  were  responsible  for  more  deaths  than  a  war  would 
take,  you  might  say." 


Filtering  the  '^ Soo''^  Canal 


J 

IX 

ROUNDABOUT    THE    "soo" 

IN  the  narrow  river  that  connects  Lakes  Superior  and 
Huron  is  a  ledge  of  rocks  half  a  mile  long,  over 
which  the  waters  run  in  swift  violence  forming  the 
Rapids  of  St.  Mary,  or,  to  put  it  in  French,  the  Sault 
Sainte  Marie.  The  adjacent  banks  were  a  gathering- 
place  for  the  Indians  from  time  immemorial.  Here  they 
fished  in  the  rapids  and  portaged  their  canoes  along  the 
shores.  The  importance  of  the  spot  increased  when  the 
white  men  came,  for  there  was  an  immediate  increase  of 
traffic.  As  time  went  on,  more  and  more  furs  had  to  be 
portaged  down,  and  more  and  more  trappers'  and 
traders'  supplies  went  up  from  below.  But  the  boats 
that  were  used,  whether  by  Indians  or  pioneer  whites, 
were  comparatively  small  and  light.  Indeed,  for  more 
than  two  centuries  after  the  whites  began  to  explore  the 
Great  Lakes,  most  of  the  navigation  was  in  frail  birch- 
bark  canoes,  or  flat-bottomed,  sharp-pointed  row- 
boats  called  bateaux.  Only  in  the  most  favorable 
weather  were  sails  used  on  these  craft,  and  they  seldom 
ventured  far  from  the  shores  of  the  stormy,  wind-swept 
waters.  Larger  vessels  were  rare  even  down  to  the 
beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  at  which  time  the 


i8o      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

entire  fleet  of  Huron,  Erie,  and  Michigan  consisted  of 
three  schooners  and  six  sloops. 

The  steamboat  made  its  appearance  on  the  lakes 
in  i8l8,  when  a  side-wheeler  called  the  Walk-in-the- 
Water  was  launched  at  Buffalo.  She  had  unboxed 
wheels,  and  six  lengths  of  stovepipe  put  together  served 
for  a  smoke-stack.  For  several  years  she  plied  back  and 
forth  between  Buffalo  and  Detroit.  The  trip  often  took 
thirteen  days,  and  the  fare  was  eighteen  dollars.  In 
1832  the  first  steamboat  reached  Chicago,  and  in  the 
years  that  followed  the  number  of  steamboats  increased 
rapidly.  They  could  move  freely  through  all  the  lakes 
above  Niagara  except  Superior,  and  presently,  in  order  to 
give  access  to  the  rich  regions  bordering  this  lake,  the 
"Soo"  Canal  was  constructed. 

It  was  at  first  agreed  that  a  lock  two  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  long  would  provide  amply  for  any  vessels  that 
would  ever  navigate  those  waters,  for  the  longest  boat 
on  the  lakes  then  measured  only  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven  feet.  But  through  the  urgency  of  Mr.  Harvey, 
who  had  charge  of  the  work,  another  hundred  feet  was 
added  to  the  lock  length.  The  undertaking  was  a 
tremendous  one  for  those  days,  without  railroad  con- 
nection with  the  rest  of  the  world  and  with  a  very  slow 
steamboat  service.  It  took  six  weeks  to  get  a  reply  to  a 
letter  mailed  to  New  York,  where  gangs  of  laborers  had 
to  be  hired  among  the  immigrants.  At  one  time  an 
epidemic  of  cholera  killed  ten  per  cent,  of  the  men,  but 
work  went  on  without  interruption.     At  another  time 


Roundabout  the  "Soo' 


I8i 


two  thousand  laborers  struck,  and  Harvey  hid  all  the 
provisions  in  the  woods  until  the  strikers  returned, 
which  they  did  in  twenty-four  hours.  The  canal  was 
completed  in  1855. 

Fifteen  years  later  the  lock  was  enlarged,  and  in  1896 
an  eight  hundred  foot  lock  was  built,  the  biggest  and 
costliest  lock  in  the  world.  Even  this  is  now  too  small, 
and  a  still  larger  one  is  nearing  completion.  During  the 
season  an  average  of  a  boat  every  twelve  minutes  day 
and  night  passes  through  the  locks,  and  the  total  annual 
tonnage  is  about  ten  times  that  of  the  Suez  Canal. 

The  changes  in  the  locks  correspond  with  the  changes 
in  the  size  and  type  of  the  lake  vessels.  In  recent  years 
the  most  omnipresent  of  these  vessels  are  the  steel 
steamboats  built  solely  to  carry  as  much  cargo  as  is 
consistent  with  safety.  Five  or  six  hundred  feet  is  a 
common  length.  At  the  stern  is  the  machinery  with  a 
smoke-stack  and  a  row  of  cabins  visible  above  the  deck. 
At  the  front  end,  the  length  of  a  city  block  distant,  is  the 
deck-house,  containing  officers'  quarters,  with  the 
wheelhouse  and  bridge.  The  whole  shell  is  built  with 
special  regard  to  strength,  and  the  improvements  in 
the  vessels  have  greatly  lessened  the  number  of  wrecks. 
Formerly  the  frequency  of  marine  tragedies  on  the 
inland  seas  was  appalling,  and  if  all  the  ships  lost  on 
them  were  evenly  distributed  on  the  thousand  mile 
route  between  Buffalo  and  Duluth  there  would  be  a 
sunken  hulk  every  half  mile.  Now,  however,  such  is 
the  comparative  rarity  of  wrecks  that,  as  far  as  pas- 


i82      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

senger  traffic  is  concerned,  no  other  travel  thorough- 
fares can  rival  these  lakes  for  safety.  In  1907,  for 
instance,  of  the  sixteen  million  persons  who  journeyed 
on  the  lake  passenger  ships  only  three  were  lost.  The 
risk  on  our  railroads  is  vastly  more  serious,  and  even 
the  percentage  of  ocean  casualties  is  twelve  times  as 
great. 

But  wrecks  of  freighters  are  still  common,  and  prob- 
ably no  similar  area  of  ocean  bottom  could  show  more 
sunken  ships  or  more  valuable  cargoes  than  the  depths 
of  the  Great  Lakes.  The  closing  days  of  the  season's 
navigation  are  the  most  perilous.  This  is  a  time  justly 
dreaded  for  its  storms  and  cold,  its  heavy  fogs,  or  bliz- 
zards of  snow.  Yet  an  additional  trip  means  the  earn- 
ing of  exceptionally  high  freight  rates,  and  a  profit  of 
thousands  of  dollars.  So  many  a  boat  assumes  the  risk. 
The  start  is  perhaps  made  under  a  clear  sky,  with  gentle 
breezes  and  mild  temperature,  but  in  a  few  hours  the 
air  may  turn  bitterly  cold,  a  fierce  gale  blow  and  the 
vessel  be  buffeted  by  a  blinding  snowstorm  and  by 
waves  whose  spray  coats  the  ship  with  ice.  The  lights 
along  the  shores  are  hidden  from  view,  and  the  safety 
of  the  vessel  depends  on  the  accuracy  of  the  captain's 
calculations  and  his  good  seamanship.  If  he  misjudges, 
instead  of  being  on  her  proper  course  miles  from  the 
coast,  the  ship  may  be  steadily  driving  toward  her 
doom. 

Fully  one  sixth  of  the  vessels  that  meet  disaster  are 
total  wrecks,  and  sometimes  not  a  soul  has  survived  of 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  183 

those  that  were  on  board.  These  land-locked  waters 
even  have  their  "mysterious  disappearances."  Ships 
sailing  from  one  port  to  another,  though  perhaps  their 
natural  course  would  at  no  time  be  more  than  thirty 
miles  from  shore,  have  never  been  heard  from  again. 
One  of  the  more  recent  of  such  mysteries  is  that  of  the 
Bannockburn.  She  was  a  powerful  freighter  with  a 
crew  of  twenty-two  men.  One  morning  she  left  Duluth 
and  was  sighted  the  next  evening.  That  was  the  last 
ever  seen  of  her.  Eighteen  months  later,  in  the  drift- 
wood at  the  edge  of  the  Michigan  wilderness  an  oar  was 
found  on  which  the  letters  of  the  name  Bannockburn 
were  rudely  scraped  into  the  wood.  This  is  the  sole 
relic  of  the  missing  freighter;  but  some  superstitious 
sailors  affirm  that  she  still  exists  and  that  on  stormy 
autumn  nights  they  have  seen  her — a  ghostly  appari- 
tion shrouded  in  ice,  scudding  through  the  gloom. 

My  first  visit  to  the  "Soo"  was  in  October,  and  on 
the  morning  after  my  arrival  I  looked  forth  from  my 
hotel  which  fronted  on  the  canal,  off  across  the  white 
turmoil  of  the  Rapids  to  the  wooded  Canadian  hills 
blushing  with  autumn  color.  The  weather  had  hitherto 
been  mild,  but  winter  seemed  to  have  arrived  during 
the  night,  and  a  wild  blast  swept  down  the  river,  even 
dashing  the  waters  of  the  canal  into  big  white-capped 
waves.  When  I  stepped  outside  for  a  moment  the  wind 
snatched  my  breath  away  and  nearly  took  me  off  my 
feet.  No  doubt,  on  the  open  lakes,  the  rude  weather 
had  caused  a  good  many  vessels  to  seek  shelter,  but 


i84      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

every  now  and  then  one  would  appear  at  the  locks,  pass 
through  and  go  on. 

Among  the  loiterers  In  the  hotel  office  was  a  pon- 
derous German  with  so  pronounced  a  double  chin  that 
his  face  was  twice  as  long  as  nature  intended  it  to  be. 
He  was  a  deep-voiced  man,  with  a  profundity  of  manner 
that  indicated  he  had  pondered  much  and  settled  defi- 
nitely as  to  the  right  and  wrong  of  most  questions.    He 
was  not  a  resident  at  the  "Soo,"  but  had  been  a  fre- 
quent visitor  there  during  the  last  twenty-five  years. 
"I  remember  the  first  time  I  came,"  said  he.     "It  was 
winter.    I  got  up  In  the  morning,  and  somebody  said  it 
was  nineteen  below  zero.     I  didn't  believe  it,  but,  by 
cracky!    It  was.     There  was  no  wind,  and  the  cold  is 
nothing  here  if  the  wind  don't  blow.     You  can  walk 
around  without  your  overcoat  no  matter  how  the  ther- 
mometer stands.    That  first  time  it  was  all  right;    but 
other  times  it's  snowed  and  it's  blowed.    The  wind  goes 
right  through  you,  and  I've  seen  six  and  a  half  feet  of 
snow  already  on  the  street  here.    Yes,  you  can  have  this 
country— I   don't  want  it.     But  it's   nice   enough   in 
summer,  and  if  you  drive  out  of  the  town  you  can  see 
some  prosperous  farms — and  you  can  see  some  that  are 
not    prosperous.      The    Germans    are    good    farmers. 
So  are  the  Dutch  and  the  Scotch;    but  the  rest— no. 
There's  the  Yankees,  for  instance.    They  talk  and  brag 
about  what  they  can  do  on  the  farm,  but  I  never  saw 
one  yet  who  was  a  good  farmer.    I  think  they're  born  a 
little  tired.    Their  strong  hold  is  scheming,  buying,  and 


In  the  business  center 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  185 

selling.  The  Irish  are  worse  still.  They  ain't  brought 
up  to  farm  in  a  business-like  way  over  in  the  old  coun- 
try, and  they  ain't  used  to  farm  machinery  and  don't 
take  care  of  it.  The  French  are  only  good  at  hunting 
and  trapping.  Then  there's  the  half-breeds.  When 
one  of  them  comes  into  possession  of  a  farm  he  wastes 
no  time  in  selling  it  cheap  to  get  it  off  his  hands. 

"I'd  guarantee  it  was  awful  rough  out  on  the  lakes 
today,  but  the  storm  wont  scare  the  captains  of  the 
freighters  any.  It'll  be  more  likely  to  make  'em  swear 
than  to  frighten  'em  into  praying.  But  no  one  will  do 
any  pleasure  sailing.  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  want  to  go 
down  the  Rapids.  You  know  the  Chippewa  Indians 
take  people  down  in  their  canoes  for  the  sake  of  fur- 
nishing 'em  some  excitement  and  novelty.  I  made  the 
trip  the  first  time  that  I  was  here  in  summer.  A  man 
and  his  v/ife  had  intended  to  go  down  at  the  same  time, 
but  the  man  was  so  afraid  he'd  get  upsot  that  he  backed 
out.  He  said  he  wouldn't  make  such  a  trip  for  a  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  I  says,  'The  Wife  is  the  best  man  of 
the  two. ' 

"It  looked  dangerous,  but  I  thought  if  she  could  go 
down  I  was  blame  sure  I  could.  Besides,  I'd  made  up 
my  mind  to  go,  and  when  I've  made  my  mind  up  that 
settles  it.  I'm  goin'  anyway.  You  can't  stop  me. 
Well,  the  woman  jumped  into  the  canoe  along  side  of 
me,  and  we  started.  There  was  an  Indian  at  the  bow 
and  one  at  the  stern  to  guide  the  boat,  and  we  went  at 
about  the  rate  of  forty-five  miles  an  hour.    As  the  feller 


1 86      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

says,  'You  can't  drink  twice  while  you're  goin'  down.' 
We  dashed  along  on  the  foaming  waves  thinkin'  at 
times  we  was  about  to  land  right  on  top  of  some  of  the 
rocks,  but  we  always  slid  one  side  or  the  other.  Those 
Indians  understood  their  business.  It  was  very  skilful 
steering,  and  at  the  end  of  the  trip  I  felt  I'd  had  my 
money's  worth.     It  cost  me  half  a  dollar. 

"I've  never  wanted  to  shoot  the  rapids  again.  I 
ain't  like  a  friend  of  mine  I  met  at  a  fair  one  time. 
'Come  into  this  tent,'  he  says.  'They've  got  the  best 
show  in  here  I  ever  saw  in  my  life. ' 

"So  I  went  in  with  him,  and  we  saw  a  man  double 
himself  backwards  and  get  through  a  hoop.  When  we 
came  out,  my  friend  says,  'Let's  go  in  again. ' 

"  'No,'  I  says.  'I've  been  in  once  and  that's  enough.' 
"But  he  went  in  six  times  just  like  a  little  boy.     I 
says,  'You're  a  nice  one  to  spend  sixty  cents  to  see  a 
fellow  go  through   a  hoop.'     He  was  from  Pennsyl- 
vania." 

^  The  town  at  the  "Soo"  is  a  place  of  considerable 
size  with  electric  cars,  and  many  substantial  buildings 
both  public  and  private.  But  I  was  less  interested  in 
the  evidences  of  its  being  progressive  and  up-to-date 
than  in  some  survivals  of  a  more  primitive  period. 
Thus,  on  Sunday,  I  attended  the  morning  service  at  a 
certain  little  wooden  church,  chiefly  because  the  religion 
of  its  adherents  was  typical  of  what  had  wide  accep- 
tance in  the  earlier  days  of  the  region.  The  church  in- 
terior was  plain  almost  to  barrenness.     There  was  no 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  187 

musical  Instrument,  chairs  served  for  seats,  and  a  stove 
supplied  heat.  Only  twenty  persons  were  present, 
but  the  weather  was  threatening,  and  very  likely  this 
had  adversely  affected  the  size  of  the  congregation. 
The  preacher  was  youthful,  intelligent  and  forceful. 
An  oddity  in  his  apparel  was  the  absence  of  a  necktie, 
but  whether  this  was  chance  or  had  some  spiritual 
significance,  I  cannot  say.  His  flock  was  earnest  and 
attentive,  joined  heartily  in  the  singing,  and  when  he 
called  on  Sister  So-and-So  or  Brother  This-and-That  to 
lead  in  prayer,  the  person  called  on  at  once  rose  and 
began,  while  the  rest  of  us  kneeled  with  our  elbows  on 
our  chairs.  At  frequent  intervals  the  persons  kneeling, 
and  more  especially  the  preacher,  voiced  their  appro- 
bation by  such  exclamations  as  "Amen!"  and  "Yes, 
Lord!" 

The  sermon  was  in  the  main  a  torrent  of  loud-voiced 
exhortation.  It  was  extemporaneous,  and  the  preacher 
stood  by  his  desk  with  a  small  Bible  in  his  hand  open  at 
the  text.  Among  other  things  he  told  how  his  folks 
left  the  "Soo"  while  he  was  quite  youthful  to  make 
their  home  "twelve  miles  out  in  the  wilderness.  I 
thought  it  was  a  great  hardship,"  said  he,  "to  leave  all 
the  advantages  of  the  town  and  move  into  that  rough, 
lonely  country,  where  I  used  to  hear  the  wildcats  and 
other  animals  howling  at  night.  But  here  I  was  going 
fast  for  a  young  boy.  I  was  going  to  the  bad,  and  if  I'd 
kept  on  I'd  been  in  my  grave  by  this  time.  They  had 
religious  meetings  in  the  old  log  schoolhouse  in  the 


i88      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

vicinity  where  we'd  moved,  and  it  was  there  the  Lord 
spoke  to  me.  After  I  was  saved  I  said,  'I'm  glad  I  ever 
came  to  this  place, '  But  though  I  was  converted  at  the 
old  log  schoolhouse,  I  must  not  omit  to  speak  of  my 
grandfather's  influence.  Every  little  while  he'd  wend 
his  way  from  the  house  up  a  secluded  path  into  the 
woods  to  pray,  and  I  attribute  my  salvation  to  the  fact 
that  I  had  a  praying  grandfather.  Praise  the  Lord 
for  evermore!" 

After  the  sermon  he  announced  that  everybody  was 
free  to  sing,  pray,  or  testify.  Nearly  all  the  adults 
responded  in  turn,  most  of  them  with  a  testimony  deliv- 
ered in  a  mechanical  monotone,  and  the  minister  sitting 
by  the  pulpit  encouraged  the  speakers  with  such  phrases 
as  "Bless  the  Lord,"  "That's  true,"  "Help  us  Lord," 
"Let  Thy  spirit  come  more  and  more." 

The  testimonies  were  characterized  by  a  sort  of  abject 
emotionalism  that  did  not  seem  to  me  at  all  edifying, 
and  the  most  human  person  present  was  a  small  boy 
who  put  in  his  time  playing  with  a  wasp  that  clung  to  a 
bit  of  string.  Some  of  the  women  were  quite  overcome 
by  the  recollection  of  the  experiences  they  related  and 
made  frequent  use  of  their  handkerchiefs  to  wipe  away 
tears  and  to  blow  their  noses.  Their  testimonies  ran 
somewhat  in  this  wise: 

"I  thank  the  Lord  this  morning  that  I  am  saved  and 
sanctified.  I'm  thankful  for  all  He's  done  for  me,  and 
that  I'm  not  ashamed  of  the  gospel  of  Christ.  I  feel 
this  morning  that  I  belong  to  the  Lord  and  He  is  mine. 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  189 

I've  always  felt  someway  or  other  that  He  had  His  hand 
on  me,  since  I  was  a  child.  But  there  was  a  time  in  my 
life — a  few  weeks  before  I  was  saved — that  I  was  ter- 
ribly afraid  I  was  one  of  the  lost.  I  thought  of  Paul, 
the  persecutor  of  the  Christians.  He  was  converted  and 
turned  right  about  face  as  it  were,  and  why  shouldn't 
I.''  After  a  while  the  light  of  the  Lord  shone  on  my 
heart,  and  I  got  the  witness  of  the  spirit  that  I  was 
forgiven.  Yet  it  was  an  awful  cross  to  go  to  the  preacher 
and  tell  him  I  was  saved.  It  didn't  seem  as  if  I  could  do 
it.  But  now  I'm  on  my  way  to  heaven.  It's  a  great 
mercy  to  belong  to  this  church  and  live  in  this  place, 
and  I  expect  to  stand  in  my  post  of  duty  to  the  end. 
I  hope  to  meet  you  all  about  the  great  white  throne." 

As  the  woman,  tremulous  and  tearful,  sank  into  her 
seat  there  was  a  chorus  of  "Amens,"  and  the  preacher 
exclaimed,  "Oh  glory  to  God  for  His  wonderful  sal- 
vation!" 

Before  I  left  the  "Soo"  I  obtained  some  lively  remi- 
niscences of  the  past  of  the  region  from  an  enthusiastic 
long-time  resident.  "I  came  here,"  said  he,  "right 
on  the  heels  of  the  Civil  War  in  the  autumn  of  '64.  I 
hadn't  expected  to  locate  permanently  in  this  wild  new 
country,  but  at  first  I  was  too  poor  to  leave.  Then  I 
bought  a  piece  of  land,  and  when  I  would  have  liked  to 
go  elsewhere  I  couldn't  sell  it  for  any  reasonable  price, 
and  I  wouldn't  give  it  away.  So  I  stayed.  There  were 
about  four  hundred  and  fifty  inhabitants  in  the  village 
when  I  came.    Hardly  more  than  one  in  ten  were  whites. 


190      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

The  rest  were  French  half-breeds  and  Indians.  Log 
houses  were  common,  but  there  were  beginning  to  be 
sawmills  in  the  region,  and  people  were  putting  up 
more  and  more  frame  buildings.  There  was  a  Catholic 
church  here,  and  had  been  for  two  hundred  years,  I 
suppose.  A  Protestant  church  was  constructed  when 
the  canal  was  begun. 

"I  taught  the  village  school,  and  in  addition  to  that 
I  preached  on  Sundays,  and  I  had  to  farm  a  little 
besides  in  order  to  keep  my  family  from  starving  to 
death.  Flour  was  twelve  dollars  a  barrel,  tea  two  dol- 
lars a  pound,  and  a  dollar  would  only  buy  four  pounds 
of  granulated  sugar.  But  we  could  always  buy  fish 
cheap  of  the  Indians,  who  went  out  into  the  rapids  with 
their  canoes  and  caught  them  in  scoop  nets.  All  we  had 
to  do  was  to  go  to  the  waterside  and  pay  fifteen  cents 
for  the  finest  whitefish  anybody  ever  tasted.  Now 
you  have  to  pay  three  or  four  times  that  for  a  fish  of 
decidedly  poorer  quality.  The  deterioration  is  due  to 
the  fact  that  the  water  is  less  pure  than  it  used  to  be. 
It  is  befouled  by  the  ashes  that  the  steamers  dump  up 
above.  At  present  the  Indians  only  fish  for  a  short 
time  when  navigation  opens.  Formerly  they  were  at 
it  from  early  spring  till  late  in  the  fall.  You'd  see  an 
Indian  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe  with  a  paddle,  and  one 
in  the  stern  with  a  pole.  They'd  go  out  to  some  eddy 
below  a  large  boulder,  and  the  man  behind  would  hold 
the  boat  steady  while  the  other  handled  the  scoop  net. 
The  net  often  brought  up  half  a  dozen  fish  at  a  time  out 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  191 

of  the  eddy.  In  a  little  while  the  men  would  return  to 
the  shore  with  a  basket  full.  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  we  had 
fish  and  potatoes — the  best  in  the  world — without 
limit. 

"I  had  nearly  a  hundred  boys  and  girls  in  my  school 
from  five  to  twenty  years  of  age,  and  at  first  I  was  the 
only  teacher.  I  taught  all  subjects  including  Latin, 
algebra,  physics,  and  bookkeeping.  The  building  was 
fairly  good,  but  inside  there  was  a  rough  pine  floor,  and 
a  mongrel  sort  of  seats,  ten  or  twelve  feet  long,  made  by 
some  local  carpenter.  Half  a  dozen  or  more  pupils  sat 
in  each  seat — I  could  have  a  whole  class  in  one — and  you 
can  imagine  how  difficult  It  was  to  keep  order. 

"The  railroad  didn't  get  here  until  1887,  and  we  were 
pretty  effectually  isolated  from  the  world  in  winter. 
We  were  careful  to  get  In  the  fall  what  supplies  we 
needed  from  the  outside.  When  the  last  boat  went 
away  about  the  beginning  of  December  we  didn't  ex- 
pect to  get  any  response  to  the  letters  we  sent  for  a 
month.  The  winter  mail  had  to  come  from  Thunder 
Bay  by  dog-train.  From  two  to  four  dogs  were  hitched 
tandem  to  a  toboggan-like  sled  in  charge  of  two  Indian 
runners  on  snowshoes.  The  trip  was  subject  to  various 
accidents  and  delays,  and  we  never  knew  exactly  when 
they  would  return.  In  their  Initial  trip  perhaps  they'd 
have  to  camp  on  the  shore  of  the  Straits  of  Mackinac 
two  or  three  weeks  waiting  for  the  channel  to  freeze 
over  so  they  could  cross,  and  meanwhile  they'd  live  on 
rabbits. 


192      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"When  we  caught  sight  of  them  coming  back  there 
was  a  great  commotion  here  at  the  'Soo.'  Everybody 
who  could  hurried  with  much  noise  and  cheering  to 
meet  the  runners  and  escorted  them  into  town,  and 
wanted  to  know  about  their  trip  and  all  the  news  before 
the  mail  was  opened. 

"I  made  the  trip  once  myself.  Besides  the  mail,  we 
had  on  our  trainneau  blankets  and  a  little  camp  equi- 
page and  grub.  One  went  ahead,  and  if  he  was  taking  a 
new  trail  he'd  blaze  the  trees  along  so  he'd  know  where 
he  was  if  he  came  that  way  again.  The  other  followed 
behind  holding  a  rope  attached  to  the  trainneau  to  steer 
it  and  restrain  it  going  down  hill.  Often  we'd  make 
forty  miles  in  a  day,  and  it  was  a  hard  trip.  We  wasted 
very  little  breath  talking  to  each  other,  for  ours  was  a 
lightning  express,  and  we  bent  all  our  energies  to  making 
speed.  Our  pace  was  a  sort  of  a  dog  trot  much  of  the 
way.  We'd  go  along  making  two  short  steps  and  then 
a  long  one  which  would  be  made  alternately  by  the  right 
and  the  left  foot.  After  a  person  got  accustomed  to  the 
gait  it  was  about  as  easy  as  an  ordinary  walk.  I  doubt 
if  there's  any  demand  for  that  sort  of  thing  on  the 
continent  of  America  now.  Our  vigorous  speed  natu- 
rally made  us  thirsty,  yet  we  didn't  dare  to  quench  our 
thirst  by  eating  snow — that  would  create  colic.  We 
waited  till  we  got  to  running  water. 

"When  night  came  we'd  stop  in  some  forest  dell,  near 
a  brook  or  spring,  if  possible.  The  dogs  were  always  so 
tired  they  were  willing  to  lie  down,  but  we  had  work  to 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  193 

do.  We'd  gather  some  dry  wood  and  start  a  fire  the 
first  thing,  and  suspend  over  it  a  kettle  of  water  to  heat. 
The  kettle  was  hung  at  the  end  of  a  pole  which  was 
propped  up  at  a  convenient  slant.  With  the  ax  we 
carried  we'd  cut  evergreen  brush,  preparatory  to  build- 
ing a  little  shelter,  and  at  the  spot  where  we  proposed 
to  put  it  we'd  scrape  away  the  snow.  Here  two  crotched 
sticks  were  set  up  a  short  distance  apart,  a  pole  laid 
across,  and  the  boughs  slanted  down  from  that  so  the 
open  front  was  toward  the  fire.  The  course  of  the  wind 
had  been  previously  observed,  and  the  shed  was  so 
placed  that  the  smoke  blew  away  from  it. 

"While  one  of  us  cooked  the  supper  the  other  took 
his  gun  or  revolver  and  went  to  see  if  he  could  scare  up 
a  rabbit  or  partridge.  We  carried  a  frying-pan  and  a 
teapot,  and  we  had  a  supply  of  cornmeal,  ham,  bacon, 
sugar,  tea,  and  hardtack.  Tea  was  a  great  staple  for  a 
forest  journey.  You  could  live  on  it  almost.  The  corn- 
meal  was  our  dogs'  food.  We  made  a  mush  of  it,  saved 
some  for  ourselves,  if  we  wanted  any,  and  the  rest  we 
poured  on  the  snow  to  cool  for  the  dogs.  They  were  so 
famished  they'd  eat  it  almost  boiling  hot.  We  only  fed 
them  once  a  day.  The  supper  had  to  do  them  for 
twenty-four  hours,  except  that  we  might  throw  them  a 
very  little  at  noon.  They  were  useless  to  work  if  fed 
freely.  It  made  them  sick.  If  we  got  a  rabbit  we'd 
skin  it,  fry  a  little  for  ourselves  and  give  the  dogs  the 
rest.  Afterward,  they'd  generally  hunt  up  the  skin  and 
eat  that,  too. 


194      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"On  the  same  principle  that  we  fed  the  dogs,  an 
Indian,  before  he  started  off  to  hunt  would  eat  nothing. 
If 'he  had  a  full  stomach  he  couldn't  stand  it  to  run. 
After  the  hunt  was  over  he'd  have  a  big  feast.  Oxen, 
too,  that  were  being  worked  in  the  woods  were  fed  very 
little  in  the  morning,  but  given  all  they  wanted  at  the 
end  of  the  day,  and  they'd  just  fill  themselves  up  and 
feed  nearly  all  night. 

"It  was  plain  fare  we  had  for  supper  in  our  forest 
camp — without  any  jams  and  jellies,  or  any  pies,  pud- 
dings or  other  after-dinner  desserts.  No,  sir,  if  we  got  a 
good  sandwich  and  a  cup  of  tea  we  were  happy.  The 
next  thing  we  wanted  to  do  was  to  roll  up  in  our  blankets 
and  say  our  prayers.  We  had  to  be  very  careful  or  the 
dogs  would  make  way  with  our  food  in  the  night  while 
we  were  asleep.  So  we'd  put  it  right  in  the  shelter  and 
perhaps  throw  the  mailbag  on  top  and  make  a  pillow  of 
it.  There  were  wolves  in  the  woods — in  fact  they  are 
all  over  here  now — but  they  didn't  disturb  us,  and 
though  we  heard  them  they  were  too  smart  to  let  us 
see  them.  Sometimes  the  thermometer  went  a  good 
many  degrees  below  zero,  yet  it  didn't  make  any  diflFer- 
ence  how  cold  the  weather  was  to  the  world,  it  wasn't 
cold  there  in  the  woods.  Nobody  ever  slept  so  sweetly 
in  a  Fifth  Avenue  palace  as  we  did  in  our  camp  in  God's 
open  air,  and  morning  came  all  too  soon. " 

A  part  of  the  time  that  I  was  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
"Soo"  I  spent  at  Brimley,  a  place  of  a  thousand  inhabi- 
tants a  few  miles  west.     A  large  and  substantial  new 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  195 

school  building  was  conspicuous  in  the  town,  and  there 
was  a  good-sized  Catholic  church,  and  a  creditable 
hotel  and  general  store.  But  nearly  all  the  other  struc- 
tures were  quite  diminutive.  The  Congregational  and 
Methodist  churches  were  so  tiny  they  looked  like  play- 
things, and  the  dwellings  were  mostly  one-story  affairs 
that  often  were  of  logs.  Few  of  the  log  structures  had 
more  than  two  rooms  within  their  walls,  but  usually 
there  was  a  makeshift  kitchen  at  the  rear  in  the  form  of 
a  leanto. 

The  place  is  on  the  shore  of  a  bay  that  reaches  inland 
from  Lake  Superior,  and  when  I  heard  that  there  was 
an  Indian  village  off  across  this  arm  of  water  I  was  eager 
to  visit  it.  I  took  the  usual  way  thither,  which  was  by  a 
two  and  a  half  mile  trestle  built  by  a  lumber  company. 
Only  a  short  section  on  the  Brimley  shore  was  still  used 
for  lumbering  purposes.  This  section  had  a  footpath  of 
boards  between  the  tracks,  but  beyond  I  had  to  step 
along  on  the  sleepers,  and  these  were  much  decayed 
and  some  of  them  broken.  A  brisk  breeze  blew,  and  the 
scurrying  waves  a  few  feet  below  had  a  tendency  to 
make  me  feel  dizzy.  The  previous  autumn  an  Indian 
fell  off  and  was  drowned.  He  was  alone,  and  it  was  not 
definitely  known  what  had  become  of  him  until  his 
body  was  found  the  next  spring. 

On  the  far  shore  of  the  bay  was  formerly  a  big  saw- 
mill and  a  populous  village.  Most  of  the  buildings  were 
still  there  pleasantly  embowered  in  a  wildwood  grove, 
but  the  loneliness  and  silence  of  the  place  were  rather 


196      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

gruesome.  A  mile  farther  on  I  came  out  of  the  woods 
on  to  a  waste  of  sand  swept  by  the  winds  from  the  lake, 
and  here  was  an  Indian  hamlet  of  two  hundred  inhabi- 
tants. The  houses  set  well  back  from  the  shore  and 
straggled  along  for  a  considerable  distance.  Many  were 
wholly  exposed,  but  others  peeped  out  from  the  borders 
of  the  brushy  woodland  into  which  the  sand  gradually 
merged.  Some  were  of  logs,  and  others  were  ugly 
shacks  covered  with  tarred  paper.  Occasionally  a  house 
was  whitewashed  and  tidy,  yet  its  premises  were  pretty 
sure  to  be  strewn  with  broken  furniture,  papers,  rusty 
tin  cans  and  similar  refuse.  The  only  really  good  build- 
ings were  the  church,  schoolhouse,  and  teacher's  dwell- 
ing, and  for  these  the  whites  were  responsible. 

A  rural  free  delivery  route  includes  the  village,  and 
each  house  had  its  metal  letter  box  with  the  owner's 
name  painted  on  it.  These  names  were  often  Scotch  or 
French,  showing  that  men  of  those  races  had  at  some 
time  married  squaws  of  the  tribe.  Indeed,  there  were 
villagers  who  in  complexion,  dress  and  speech  scarcely 
betrayed  a  traceof  Indian.  However,  black,  straight  hair, 
olive-tinted  skin  and  slightly  oblique  eyes  were  pre- 
dominant. On  one  of  the  knolls  was  a  burial  plot  fenced 
in  with  barbed  wire,  but  the  fence  was  partially  broken 
down  and  three  horses  were  browsing  among  the  graves. 
Several  evergreen  trees  grew  in  the  briary  neglected 
inclosure,  and  around  some  of  the  family  plots  of  graves 
was  a  rickety  picket  fence.  Many  of  the  single  graves 
were  protected  by  a  low  box-like  board  covering  with  a 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  197 

hipped  top  to  shed  the  rain.  Some  of  the  boxes  were 
ruinous,  and  I  could  see  inside  that  birch  bark  was  laid 
on  the  ground  to  further  protect  the  grave  from  the 
weather.  A  few  graves  had  marble  headstones,  and  the 
name  was  likely  to  be  followed  by  a  funereal  verse  or 
rhyme  such  as  the  following  on  the  headstone  of  a  chief: 

"A  faithful  friend,  a  husband  dear, 
A  tender  parent  lieth  here." 

Some  graves  had  a  slight  board  set  up  instead  of  a 
headstone.  Often  pebbles  were  laid  around  the  border, 
and  perhaps  a  cross  or  other  decorative  figure  of  stones 
was  in  the  center. 

Four  horses  and  three  cows  were  owned  in  the  hamlet. 
They  did  not  look  as  if  they  got  very  good  care.  Their 
proprietors  cut  a  little  grass  for  them  in  the  low  hollows, 
stacked  it  and  fenced  in  the  stacks.  This  hay  is  not 
sufficient  feed  for  the  winter,  and  whatever  more  is 
needed  is  bought  from  the  whites.  Wells  were  scarce, 
and  a  single  one  frequently  served  several  families, 
so  some  had  to  walk  quite  a  distance  to  a  well.  The 
wells  were  only  a  few  feet  deep,  with  sides  boxed  in,  and 
a  cover  put  on  top  of  the  curb.  A  stick  with  the  elbow 
of  a  branch  left  on  at  the  butt  was  used  to  let  pails  down 
and  pull  them  up.  Usually  a  small  potato  patch  ad- 
joined a  home,  but  one  could  hardly  expect  a  prolific 
yield  in  that  sandy  soil  without  fertilizer  or  rotation. 
The  vines  were  small  and  frost-blackened.     I  saw  no 


198      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

other  crop,  though  one  of  the  Indians  said  they  raised 
turnips. 

It  was  curious,  the  contrast  afforded  by  the  first 
white  man's  place  I  came  to  when  I  went  beyond  the 
Indian  domains.  The  man  was  evidently  poor,  yet  here 
was  comparative  opulence — ploughed  fields,  big  stacks 
of  fodder,  sturdy  horses,  and  sleek  cattle. 

After  I  returned  to  Brimley  I  fell  in  with  a  man  who 
had  a  very  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  habits  of  the 
local  Indians,  and  we  had  a  long  chat  about  them. 
"They  could  have  steady  work  if  they  wanted  it,"  said 
he,  "but  they  don't.  Six  days  is  the  work  limit  for  an 
Indian.  Then  he's  got  to  have  eighteen  days'  rest. 
However,  I'm  not  saying  that  the  white  men  are  perfect 
when  it  comes  to  working.  I  had  some  carpentering 
done  last  summer,  and  there  was  one  man  I  wanted  to 
discharge.  You  could  hear  his  mouth  going  clickety- 
clack  all  the  time.  He  was  no  earthly  good.  But  he 
belonged  to  the  union,  and  if  I'd  turned  him  off  I'd 
have  brought  everything  to  a  stop. 

"It  don't  cost  an  Indian  much  to  live.  He  can  get 
his  own  fish  and  venison,  and  if  he  buys  a  little  sack  of 
flour  and  a  chunk  of  pork  once  in  a  while  he's  all  right. 
An  Indian  who's  got  enough  for  breakfast  don't  worry 
till  it's  time  for  dinner.  He  has  no  energy,  no  ambition. 
A  big  strong  man  will  lie  around  on  a  sunny  slope  all 
day.  It's  a  kind  of  care-free,  improvident  animal  con- 
tentment that  you  don't  often  find  in  white  men.  No- 
body lets  'em  have  goods  on  trust.    I  don't  think  they 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  199 

intend  to  cheat  you,  but  they're  too  irresponsible. 
If  one  of  'em  owes  you,  and  you  go  to  him  when  he  has 
money  he'll  pay,  but  if  you  don't  get  hold  of  him  soon 
after  he's  received  the  money  it'll  be  spent. 

"They  don't  often  have  wood  enough  ahead  so  but 
that  they  have  to  chop  some  to  make  a  fire  when  they 
get  up  in  the  morning.  To  haul  the  wood,  dogs  are 
used  hitched  to  a  sled  about  three  feet  wide,  six  long  and 
eight  inches  high.  Its  runners  are  made  of  maple  or 
birch  saplings,  shaved  thin  and  bent  to  the  proper  shape. 
Those  unshod  runners  slip  along  nice  in  dry  frosty 
weather.  When  the  dogs  return  with  a  load  the  man  is 
perhaps  on  ahead  with  a  rope  over  his  shoulder  helping 
pull.  They  follow  little  winding  paths  through  the 
woods,  and  sometimes  contrive  to  drag  back  to  the  door 
a  good-sized  log,  which  will  last  quite  a  while  and  can  be 
hacked  at  as  often  as  there  is  need  of  replenishing  the 
fire. 

"The  Indians  are  great  hands  to  trap  rabbits.  In  the 
winter  the  rabbits  have  regular  paths  in  the  thick 
underbrush,  and  the  Indians  set  snares  in  those  rabbit 
runs.  The  snare  consists  of  a  noose  of  copper  wire 
fastened  to  a  twig  bent  over  the  path.  When  a  rabbit 
gets  into  the  noose  the  twig  flies  up  and  there  he  is  hung. 
The  Indians  shoot  a  good  many  rabbits,  but  they  mostly 
depend  on  snares  because  they  don't  often  have  the 
money  to  buy  guns  and  ammunition. 

"In  the  huckleberry  season  they  like  to  go  off  on  the 
plains  and  camp  there — a  little  village  of  them  picking 


200      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

berries.  A  good  picker  can  make  three  or  four  dollars 
a  day.  But  it's  the  squaws  that  do  the  picking  while 
the  men  watch  the  tent  and  do  what  little  cooking  is 
necessary.  The  squaws  are  apt  to  be  very  good  work- 
ers, and  are  often  quite  neat  and  handy.  Some  of  'em 
are  as  clean  people  as  I  ever  saw.  But  their  houses  are 
dark  and  full  of  tobacco  smoke,  and  the  men  are  not  at 
all  particular  where  they  spit.  Nevertheless,  the 
squaws  are  great  on  the  scrub,  and  they  take  sand  and 
water  and  rub  their  floors  till  they  wear  them  out.  Soap 
isn't  used  much — it's  too  expensive.  The  squaws  make 
mittens  and  moccasins  out  of  deerskin,  and  they  make 
mats  out  of  grass,  and  do  beadwork,  and  weave  baskets 
with  willow  twigs  or  ash  bark.  They  go  out  in  the 
woods,  chop  down  an  ash  tree,  and  pound  ofl'  the  bark, 
which  separates  into  stringy  strands  very  good  for 
basket-making.  Some  of  the  articles  they  sell  to  the 
stores,  and  others  they  peddle  from  house  to  house  and 
get  money  for  'em,  or  exchange  'em  for  old  clothes. 
They're  always  in  need  of  clothes,  and  every  year  I 
give  a  suit  of  mine  to  the  old  chief,  William  WyoskI, 
or  Bill  Whiskey  as  we  call  him  for  short. 

"Lots  of  those  Indians  have  had  a  dandy  education 
and  can  write  as  nice  a  hand  as  you'd  want  to  see.  As 
soon  as  they're  out  of  school  they  return  to  the  old  ways 
of  living,  and  it's  doubtful  if  they've  made  a  particle  of 
progress  in  the  last  quarter  of  a  century.  They  are 
inordinately  fond  of  liquor,  and  I  believe  drink  as  much 
as  ever.     In  some  towns  they  can  go  into  the  saloons 


^ 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  201 

and  buy  it  themselves,  in  other  towns  they  have  to  get 
someone  else  to  do  the  buying  for  them.  Both  men  and 
women  drink,  but  it's  usually  only  the  men  who  take 
enough  to  get  drunk.  They  always  have  liquor  at  their 
dances,  and  as  a  consequence  sometimes  get  to  fighting 
and  stab  each  other  with  jack-knives.  One  of  'em, 
after  a  New  Year's  dance,  had  twenty-eight  knife-cuts 
in  his  back,  but  he  got  well.  That  sounds  as  if  they  were 
pretty  desperate  characters  when  under  the  influence  of 
liquor,  yet  the  whites  don't  find  a  drunken  Indian  dan- 
gerous. He's  just  maudlin  and  foolish  and  excessively 
polite.  If  one  of  'em  dies  in  a  drunk,  the  rest  of  the 
tribe  never  acknowledge  the  real  cause  of  the  death, 
but  attribute  it  to  'heart  failure.' 

"When  they  want  to  have  a  dance  they  pick  out  the 
house  that  has  the  best  floor.  A  quadrille  they  learned 
from  the  French  is  one  of  their  favorite  dances,  because 
they  can  swing  each  other  dizzy  in  it.  The  cutting-out 
jig  is  another  favorite.  A  man  and  a  woman  begin  the 
dance,  and  pretty  soon  a  woman  from  among  the  by- 
standers elbows  out  the  one  dancing  and  takes  her  place. 
Then  a  man  elbows  out  the  man  dancer,  and  they  keep 
on  cutting  each  other  out  until  the  music  stops.  The 
dancing  continues  all  night. 

"They're  pretty  good  about  going  to  church,  and  they 
get  quite  excited  at  camp-meeting  and  shout  and  cry  in 
testifying  as  to  their  religious  experiences.  But  we  have 
whites  who  carry  on  in  the  same  way.  We  used  to  have 
a  woman  in  this  village  who  was  what  we  call  a  Shouting 


202      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Methodist.  Every  morning,  summer  and  winter  alike, 
at  seven  o'clock  or  thereabouts,  she'd  raise  her  window 
and  make  a  long  prayer  that  was  full  of  crying  and 
yelling.  My,  how  she  did  whoop  it  up!  I  never  heard 
such  a  racket. 

"At  Garden  River  there's  a  Catholic  Indian  Mission, 
with  a  beautiful  grove  around  the  church,  and  each  year 
the  Indians  perform  a  sort  of  pilgrimage  through  the 
grove,  shooting  off  guns,  and  stopping  to  pray  at  certain 
stations  where  a  little  rustic  altar  had  been  set  up; 
They  have  a  big  time. 

"The  superstitions  and  primitive  methods  of  their 
ancestors  still  have  a  strong  hold  on  them,  and  in  case  of 
sickness  they're  very  apt  to  forget  their  education  and 
religion  and  go  to  some  native  witch  doctor.  If  the 
witch  doctor  will  dance  and  shout  around  'em  they 
think  they're  goin'  to  be  benefited.  Our  white  doctors 
never  know  whether  their  orders  will  be  obeyed  by  an 
Indian  or  not.  One  of  'em  gave  a  squaw  some  medicine 
to  take  and  told  her  to  stay  in  bed.  The  next  day  he 
found  her  out  in  the  snow  splitting  wood,  and  she  hadn't 
touched  the  medicine.  She  told  him  she  had  some  the 
same  color  before  and  it  did  her  no  good. 

"One  of  the  great  days  in  the  year  for  our  Indians 
is  Fourth  of  July.  There's  fireworks  and  a  parade  at  the 
'Soo,'  and  they  all  hustle  and  do  some  work  beforehand 
so  as  to  earn  a  little  money  for  the  occasion.  The 
whole  tribe  digs  out  on  that  day,  and  each  person  man- 
ages to  have  the  price  of  the  railroad  fare  back  and  forth. 


Roundabout  the  "Soo"  203 

"A  while  ago  the  government  made  a  payment  to 
the  Indians — twenty-one  dollars  and  sixteen  cents 
apiece.  Gosh!  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  excitement. 
Everyone  had  to  come — squaws,  kids  and  all,  because 
the  officials  would  only  pay  those  that  showed  up. 
Some  had  to  come  so  far  that  the  railroad  got  practically 
all  of  the  money  for  fare.  One  man  whose  name  by 
chance  wasn't  on  the  records  spent  a  good  part  of  a 
year  chasing  around  to  get  his  pay.  Whether  they  had 
little  or  much  left,  it  was  soon  gone,  but  they  made 
things  jingle  for  a  while.  They'd  come  in  to  the  Brimley 
hotel  to  buy  their  meals,  and  a  flock  of  'em  were  on 
every  train  that  went  to  or  came  from  the  'Soo.' 
They're  very  fond  of  trinkets  and  showy  things,  and 
they  got  pretty  well  blossomed  out  with  cheap  jewelry. 
Have  you  noticed  how  they  dress  .^  The  old  squaws 
wear  black,  but  the  young  girls  try  to  follow  the  styles 
and  to  have  the  latest  things  in  hats,  even  if  the  materi- 
als are  so  poor  that  the  first  time  the  wearers  are  caught 
out  in  the  rain  the  colors  of  the  feathers  and  ribbons 
run  and  the  hats  are  all  bedraggled.  Red  and  purple 
are  their  favorite  tints. 

"When  it  comes  to  spending  money  they're  all  pretty 
freakish.  They're  great  consumers  of  canned  goods, 
but  are  more  apt  to  buy  canned  peaches  and  the  like 
of  that  than  more  substantial  and  less  expensive  things. 
At  one  time  a  Canadian  tribe  received  a  considerable 
sum  from  their  government,  and  a  good  many  invested 
in  pianos.     It  was  funny  to  find  a  piano  in  a  little  log 


204      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

cabin,  and  they  couldn't  play — they  could  only  drum 
on  the  instruments. 

"You  see,  with  all  the  years  theyVe  been  in  contact 
with  the  whites,  they  don't  lose  their  natural  wildness, 
and  I  don't  know  as  they  ever  will." 

Note. — The  great  attraction  to  the  traveller  who  visits  the  "  Soo" 
is  the  locks.  These  with  the  monster  freighters  constantly  passing 
through  furnish  a  most  interesting  spectacle.  Close  at  hand  are  the 
foaming  rapids,  and  there  is  a  chance  for  excitement  by  taking  a 
ride  down  them  in  a  canoe  manned  by  local  Indians.  Probably 
most  of  us  feel  a  marked  curiosity  about  the  Indians,  those  wilder- 
ness dwellers  who  once  had  the  entire  continent  to  themselves,  and 
doubtless  some  visitors  at  the  "Soo"  would  be  glad  to  spend  a  day 
going  to  see  the  Indians  at  home.  Their  village  near  Brimley  is 
comparatively  accessible  and  is  fairly  representative  of  how  they 
live  after  they  abandon  their  wigwams  and  adopt  in  a  primitive 
sort  of  way  the  habits  of  the  whites. 


X 

THE  REGION  OF  THE  PICTURED  ROCKS 

THE  Pictured  Rocks  extend  for  about  ten  miles 
along  the  southern  coast  of  Lake  Superior  east 
of  Munising.  They  are  cliffs  carved  by  the 
waves  into  many  grottoes  and  pillars  and  fantastic 
forms,  and  the  rocks  are  stained  with  color  so  that  at 
a  little  distance  an  imaginative  person  can  fancy  many 
curious  pictures  on  the  face  of  the  cliffs.  They  are  par- 
ticularly charming  on  a  clear  day  when  there  is  a  play 
of  sunshine  reflected  on  them  from  the  waves. 

The  main  line  of  railroad  does  not  touch  the  lake 
shore  in  that  vicinity,  and  I  got  off  the  train  one  evening 
at  a  little  town  about  three  miles  inland  from  Munising. 
It  was  stormy,  and  men  in  rubber  coats  were  bus- 
tling about  getting  passengers  for  the  Munising  stage, 
piling  baggage  and  people  into  the  vehicle,  and  button- 
ing curtains  snugly  around.  The  prospect  of  a  wet  muddy 
drive  through  the  night  did  not  attract  me,  and  I  liked 
the  look  of  a  light  not  far  away  across  the  tracks,  shining 
from  the  open  door  of  a  building  that  I  was  told  was  a 
hotel.  Thither  I  turned  my  steps.  The  hotel  was  a 
small,  rude,  two-story  structure  in  charge  of  a  fat, 
elderly  Irishwoman,  who  showed  me  to  a  room.  This 
room  had  no  lock  on  the  door,  but  she  said  I  would  not 


2o6      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

be  disturbed,  though  I  might  hear  some  of  "the  boys,"  as 
she  called  the  young  railroad  employees  who  were  her 
boarders,  coming  in  late  at  night  from  a  dance.  When 
morning  arrived  I  discovered  that  in  common  with  the 
other  lodgers  I  was  expected  to  wash  my  hands  and  face 
in  the  office  where  there  was  a  basin  on  a  stand,  under- 
neath which  was  a  pail  for  dirty  water.  I  had  the  choice 
of  three  towels,  but  so  many  of  the  boarders  had  used 
them  before  I  took  my  turn  it  was  difficult  to  find  a 
space  on  any  of  them  that  was  either  dry  or  clean. 

The  chief  topic  of  conversation  at  the  breakfast  table 
was  an  episode  of  the  previous  day.  A  drunken  man 
had  shot  a  duck  that  belonged  to  a  villager.  He  brought 
it  to  the  hotel  and  wanted  the  landlady  to  cook  it  for 
him.  She  would  have  done  so,  but  the  duck  was  too 
small  and  lacking  in  flesh.  Then  the  man  went  his  way, 
and  a  constable  nabbed  him  and  locked  him  up,  which 
all  agreed  was  a  shame — "a  poor  fellow  who  was  drunk 
and  didn't  know  what  he  was  about,  and  had  only  killed 
one  little  duck  anyway." 

The  man  who  sat  next  to  me  was  a  teamster.  At 
present  he  was  drawing  hay  from  a  marsh  twenty  miles 
distant.  "I  go  one  day  and  return  the  next,"  said  he. 
"We  cut  the  grass  in  summer,  dry  it  and  stack  it,  and  we 
have  to  bring  it  to  town  before  winter,  because  there's 
no  track  broken  through  the  snow  out  that  way.  It's 
wilderness  nearly  all  the  distance,  and  an  awful  poor 
sandy  road.  I  started  from  the  marsh  with  my  load  at 
six  o'clock  yesterday  morning,  and  it  was  almost  dark 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  207 

when  I  got  here.  There's  all  kinds  of  lakes  out  there. 
A  man  is  staying  in  a  tent  near  the  marsh  to  hunt  and 
trap,  and  he  helps  me  load.  We've  got  about  thirty  ton 
to  cart  out." 

"Did  yez  get  the  lunch  we  put  up  for  you  day  before 
yesterday.?"  asked  the  landlady  who  just  then  came  in 
from  the  kitchen. 

"No,"  replied  the  teamster, 

"We  knew  you  didn't,"  said  the  landlady's  daughter 
who  was  waiting  on  the  table.  "The  night  before,  we'd 
been  to  a  grange  meeting  feed  at  the  schoolhouse  hall, 
and  after  that  was  over  we  put  what  wasn't  eaten  in  two 
baskets  and  left  'em  just  inside  of  the  schoolhouse  door, 
as  we  told  you  we  would.  But  the  next  morning  three 
boys  found  the  baskets  and  took  'em  down  to  the 
swamp  on  the  other  side  of  the  schoolhouse.  Someone 
saw  'em  with  the  baskets,  and  by  and  by  told  me,  and  I 
and  another  girl  run  after  'em.  When  we  got  there 
they'd  emptied  one  basket  and  started  on  the  other. 
'Twas  too  bad.  There  was  a  big  dish  of  beans,  and 
chicken,  and  fruit,  and  everything.  Mr.  Connors  gave 
the  boys  an  awful  licking  except  the  smallest  one,  who 
was  led  into  the  mischief  by  the  others." 

"Well,"  said  the  teamster  rising  from  the  table, 
"what's  done  is  done  and  can't  be  helped.  It's  time  I 
was  starting.  I'm  anxious  to  get  that  hay  down  here. 
Winter's  almost  due  now." 

"That's  so,"  said  one  of  the  other  boarders.  "You 
can  look  for  snow  in  this  country  any  time  after  the 


2o8      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Fourth  of  July — and  any  time  before,  too.  You  can't 
even  raise  corn  to  advantage  here.  It's  only  the  early 
varieties  that'll  ripen." 

"We  do  well  with  potatoes,"  afhrmed  the  teamster. 
"On  one  farm  over  south  of  the  town  there's  eighty- 
three  acres  of  'em  in  one  chunk." 

"Yes,  the  potatoes  are  all  right  here,"  acknowledged 
the  other,  "but  I  think  the  farmers'  best  chance  is  to 
raise  grasshoppers  and  sell  the  hops. 

During  the  night  the  weather  had  cleared,  and  after 
breakfast  I  started  to  walk  to  Munising.  The  road 
wound  along  up  and  down  the  hills  and  in  and  out  of  the 
glens,  sometimes  amid  farmlands,  sometimes  through 
woods  that  were  attired  in  autumn-tinted  glory.  The 
foliage  still  dripped  with  the  recent  rain,  and  every  puff 
of  wind  shook  down  the  water-drops,  and  set  some  of 
the  leaves  adrift.  Finally  I  descended  to  a  wide  hollow 
by  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  there  was  Munising — a 
good-sized  new  town,  with  a  big  pulp-mill  and  saw- 
mills, and  straight-angled  streets  and  monotonous  rows 
of  small  wooden  houses,  and  the  usual  proportion  of 
stores,  churches,  and  noisome  saloons. 

To  come  out  of  the  wholesome  and  satisfying  wood- 
land with  all  its  grace  and  beauty  into  this  raw  new 
town  was  far  from  agreeable,  and  I  hastened  to  get 
away.  By  following  the  shore  eastward,  I  soon  left  all 
habitations  and  highways  behind.  When  I  could,  I  kept 
to  the  narrow  strip  of  beach  which  in  places  was  stony, 
but  usually  was  of  fine  white  sand.    There  were  frequent 


Making  repairs 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  209 

stretches,  however,  so  obstructed  with  logs  and  snags, 
pieces  of  wrecks  and  other  drift  rubbish  that  I  had  to 
make  my  way  through  the  bordering  woodland.  There 
was  always  a  path  that  threaded  along  in  an  irregular 
way  a  little  back  from  the  water,  but  the  trail  was  so 
faint  and  brushy  that  in  spots  I  had  difficulty  in  dis- 
tinguishing it.  Why  there  should  have  been  any  path 
at  all  through  that  lonely  tangle  was  a  mystery  until  I 
met  a  hunter  laboring  along  it,  who  had  been  off  eight 
or  ten  miles  after  ducks.  The  ground  underfoot  was 
often  swampy,  or  my  progress  was  half  blocked  by 
weeds  and  saplings,  and  now  and  then  I  was  obliged  to 
climb  over  or  crawl  under  a  tree  that  had  fallen  across 
the  path.  Occasionally  I  got  off  the  trail  entirely,  but 
I  would  soon  be  brought  to  a  full  stop  by  the  thick 
undergrowth  and  had  to  retrace  my  steps.  Outside  I 
could  hear  the  wind  assailing  the  forest  and  dashing  the 
waves  up  on  the  shore,  and  far  above  me  I  could  see  the 
tree-tops  swaying,  yet  in  the  woodland  depths  where  I 
was  walking  it  was  very  quiet,  and  only  the  faintest 
breath  of  air  was  stirring. 

At  length  I  came  to  a  point  that  reached  far  out  into 
the  lake.  Here  the  ground  was  sandy,  the  woods  more 
open,  and  there  were  patches  of  huckleberry  bushes. 
I  even  found  a  few  belated  berries  amid  the  reddened 
foliage.  When  I  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  point  the 
swampy  jungle  resumed  its  sway  along  the  shore,  and  I 
turned  and  struggled  back  to  Munising. 

On  another  day  I  attempted  an  exploration  in  the 


2IO     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

opposite  direction  and  plodded  a  woodland  road  that 
kept  near  the  shore  westward.  Where  the  road  was 
swampy  it  was  made  solid  with  corduroy  and  some  of 
the  logs  used  for  the  purpose  were  fully  a  foot  in  diam- 
eter. Those  that  made  too  pronounced  a  hump  had 
been  slightly  hewed  oif  at  the  places  where  the  wagon 
wheels  passed  over  them.  Originally  this  had  been  a 
logging  road,  but  the  finer  timber  was  now  all  gone  from 
the  neighboring  forest,  and  the  neglected  road  was 
getting  mossy  and  grass-grown. 

I  had  begun  to  think  of  retracing  my  steps  when  I 
was  surprised  to  come  to  a  gate,  and  to  see  a  house  on 
ahead.  I  went  on  then  more  eagerly  and  soon  was  in  a 
really  delightful  little  fishermen's  settlement  of  four 
dwellings,  with  accompanying  barns  and  sheds,  and  a 
tiny  schoolhouse.  The  shore  was  variegated  with  bluffs 
and  green  dells,  and  the  rocks  were  much  worn  by  the 
waves.  Even  the  rocks  that  were  many  feet  above  the 
reach  of  the  water  as  it  is  now  were  deeply  sculptured, 
plainly  showing  that  the  lake  in  ages  past  stood  at  a  far 
higher  level.  Each  house  had  an  individual  and  inter- 
esting setting  amid  trees  and  rocks  that  gave  a  sense  of 
cosiness  and  protection,  and  yet  allowed  an  outlook  on 
the  lake.  They  were  a  part  of  nature  to  an  unusual 
degree.  Slender  paths  trodden  in  the  turf  linked  the 
scattered  buildings  together,  dodging  here  and  there 
around  ledges,  or  wet  hollows,  or  tree  clumps,  and  pass- 
ing through  various  gates.  Little  wharves  reached  out 
into  the  water,  and  there  were  great  fishnet  reels  on 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  211 

them,  and  boats  lay  alongside,  and  on  the  adjacent 
shore  were  piles  of  driftwood  rescued  to  use  in  the  home 
stoves.  On  the  slopes  back  of  the  houses  were  a  number 
of  open  fields  and  pastures,  and  a  few  grazing  cows  and 
calves. 

The  men  farmed  in  a  primitive  sort  of  way,  and  they 
mowed  all  their  grass  with  scythes.  They  hoed  their 
potatoes  and  made  hay  mostly  on  days  when  the  wind 
blew  too  hard  for  their  boats  to  go  out  to  the  fishing- 
grounds.  Incidentally,  their  firewood  supply  needed 
pretty  constant  attention.  Their  winter  wood  came 
from  the  forest,  but  for  the  summer  fires  a  man  would 
go  in  a  rowboat  along  shore,  pick  up  a  load  of  driftwood, 
and  drag  some  logs  behind  to  the  home  waterside. 

The  inmates  of  the  four  houses  constituted  most  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  town  of  Grand  Island,  and  only 
in  those  four  families  were  there  any  children.  The  four 
families  were  all  closely  related,  and  even  the  school- 
ma'am,  though  she  came  from  a  distance,  was  a  relative. 
So  few  were  the  voters  that  the  distribution  of  the  town 
offices  presented  a  problem  of  considerable  difficulty. 
Financially  the  town  was  well-to-do,  because  a  certain 
business  organization  that  has  large  interests  on  the 
lakes  chose  to  pay  taxes  on  some  of  its  shipping  there. 
At  one  time  the  townsmen  got  critical  because  the 
shipping  was  assessed  at  no  more  than  a  quarter  of  its 
real  value.  "But  when  we  told  the  company  we  were 
going  to  raise  their  valuation,"  said  one  of  the  villagers, 
"they  replied,  'All  right,  then  we  will  enter  it  else- 


212      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

where.'  Of  course  we  didn't  want  to  lose  that  chunk  of 
taxes,  and  so  we  kept  quiet." 

Eleven  children  attended  school.  When  I  met  and 
spoke  to  them  their  shy  and  gentle  rnanners  were  quite 
delightful.  There  was  none  of  the  bold  pertness  so  often 
characteristic  of  the  town  child.  Their  pleasures  were 
rather  limited.  They  told  me  how  they  played  hide 
and  go  seek,  and  angled  after  fish  from  the  wharves,  and 
sometimes  went  in  a  motor-boat  to  the  fishing-grounds, 
but  no  doubt  the  woods  and  caves  and  waters  around 
furnished  much  entertainment  they  forgot  to  mention. 
They  had  been  only  a  few  miles  from  home,  and  the 
water  had  been  their  usual  highway  when  they  jour- 
neyed out  into  the  world.  It  was  on  the  water,  too,  that 
their  parents  commonly  travelled,  and  the  corduroy 
road  was  seldom  used  except  in  w^inter. 

One  of  the  men  was  building  a  boat  in  a  long  low 
shed  on  the  hillside,  and  I  spent  a  good  deal  of  time 
sitting  amid  the  chips  and  shavings  there  talking  with 
him.  The  boat  was  seventeen  feet  long  and  six  wide, 
and  it  nearly  filled  the  shed,  but  left  room  at  one  end 
for  a  bench  and  a  little  stove.  My  companion  wore  a 
bushy  full  beard  that  stood  out  all  around  his  face  and 
framed  in  the  features  it  did  not  hide.  He  was  mild- 
mannered  and  soft-spoken,  as  if  nature's  mystery  in 
the  forest  and  on  the  waters  had  subdued  any  loud  and 
rough  tendencies;  and  he  was  philosophic  and  leisurely, 
not  easily  stirred  to  either  ire  or  levity,  yet  sometimes 
breaking  forth  with  a  vigorously-stated  opinion,  or  a 


Driftwood  for  home  fires 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  213 

wholesome  ripple  of  laughter.  Once,  when  I  entered 
the  shed  unexpectedly,  I  found  him  talking  to  himself. 

"That's  a  trick  I  learned  while  I  was  out  in  Oregon, 
years  ago,"  he  said.  "I  had  a  ranch  there  in  the  woods 
three  miles  from  the  nearest  family,  with  no  company 
but  my  cattle  and  sheep;  and  yet  I  enjoyed  myself 
there  the  same  like  as  in  a  crowd — yes,  better  than  in  a 
crowd.  For  months  I  wouldn't  see  another  human 
being,  and  as  I  didn't  speak  a  word  all  that  time,  when 
I  went  out  and  saw  people  and  tried  to  talk  I  couldn't. 
I  knew  how  to  make  the  sounds,  and  yet  I  couldn't  make 
'em.  I'd  just  whisper  and  squeak  and  squeal.  If  a 
person  was  silent  a  year,  I  believe  he'd  lose  his  voice 
altogether.  To  keep  in  practice  I  got  to  talkin'  to 
myself,  and  now  I  can't  break  myself  of  it.  I've  known 
others  who  had  the  same  habit.  There  was  John  Mur- 
ray who  used  to  teach  school  here.  He  was  educated 
for  a  Catholic  priest,  but  he  was  gifted  with  drink,  arid 
after  a  while  he  built  a  cabin  down  at  Mushrat  Point, 
where  he  stayed  all  alone  and  raised  potatoes.  About 
once  in  so  often  he'd  come  and  get  a  jug  filled  with 
whiskey  so  he  could  have  a  spree.  He  was  always 
talkin' — talkin'  to  his  work,  talkin'  to  his  old  shoes, 
to  his  cat,  to  the  little  birds — anything. 

"And  here  you  find  me  talkin'  to  my  boat.  I've  got 
the  keel  laid  and  the  ribs  in  place.  Those  ribs  are  cedar. 
I've  been  hunting  for  proper  trees  all  summer.  It's 
awful  hard  to  find  'em  with  the  natural  crook — you  bet 
it  is!     But  you  cut  those  that  grow  so  and  there's  no 


214      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

spring  in  the  ribs  of  your  boat.  They'll  stay  right  there. 
I'm  goin'  to  use  spruce  boards  for  the  shell  of  the  boat 
above  the  water  line,  but  below  I'll  use  oak  because  that 
stands  buntin'  agin'  the  rocks  better.  The  bottom  is 
very  broad.  I  want  to  be  able  to  navigate  shallow  water 
and  to  go  ashore  without  wading  and  getting  wet. 

"My  father  came  to  this  region  from  Illinois  about 
1840  and  brought  his  family.  He  settled  over  on  Grand 
Island,  and  his  was  the  only  white  family  anywhere 
around.  As  time  went  on  he  got  to  have  quite  a  group 
of  buildings — a  house,  store,  blacksmith's  shop,  cooper's 
shop,  stable,  and  warehouse,  all  of  logs.  When  there 
began  to  be  steamboats  on  the  lake  he  chopped  a  good 
deal  of  cord  wood  and  hauled  it  down  to  the  point  with 
his  oxen  to  sell  to  the  boats. 

"He  kept  several  cows,  raised  hay  and  potatoes  and 
other  vegetables,  did  some  fishing,  built  boats,  and  at 
times  made  steel  traps  in  his  blacksmith  shop;  but  his 
main  business  was  trading  with  the  Injuns  for  furs.  He 
kept  such  trinkets  and  supplies  as  they  wanted,  and  of 
course,  like  all  those  that  dealed  with  Injuns,  he  had  to 
have  a  little  whiskey  for  bait.  However,  he  didn't  let 
'em  have  all  the  drink  they  asked  for.  Trading  with 
them  was  profitable.  He  gave  them  a  little  something 
for  their  furs — about  a  third  of  what  they  were  worth, 
and  charged  four  or  five  times  the  real  value  for  what 
the  Injuns  bought.  You  must  remember,  though,  there 
was  considerable  risk  and  expense  getting  things  here. 
They  were  mostly  brought  in  bateaux  and  canoes.    The 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  215 

only  larger  boat  on  the  lake  at  first  was  a  little  schooner 
that  had  been  hauled  over  the  portage  at  the  *Soo.' 
The  furs  we  got  were  such  as  martin,  fisher,  otter, 
beaver,  mushrat,  and  once  in  a  while  a  bear  or  a  link. 
Sometimes  the  water  would  be  covered  almost  with  the 
birch-bark  canoes  of  the  Injuns.  The  Injuns  did  their 
paddling  when  it  was  ca'm  and  stopped  when  the  wind 
blowed,  and  they  often  camped  on  the  island  a  day  or 
two  and  then  went  on  again. 

"At  the  places  where  they  lived  they  planted  some 
stuff"  such  as  potatoes,  pumpkins,  squashes,  turnips  and 
corn.  Sometimes  they'd  have  enough  potatoes  so 
they'd  bury  a  part  of  'em  in  the  ground  for  winter  use. 
They  didn't  wear  as  much  clothes  as  they  do  now.  In 
summer  the  men  would  often  have  on  just  a  breech 
clout;  but  the  big  men — the  chiefs — would  perhaps 
wear  leggin's  and  knee-breeches  of  buckskin,  and  have 
their  hair  full  of  feathers,  and  they'd  be  painted  and 
everything  else.  I  recollect  seein'  a  party  of  Injun 
fishermen  go  by  on  the  ice  one  winter  day,  and  the  wind 
was  blowin'  like  the  dickens,  too;  but  they  had  no  pants 
on,  and  their  shirt-flaps  were  fluttering  about  their 
shanks.  They  were  on  snowshoes  and  had  moccasins 
that  came  most  up  to  their  knees.  They  didn't  seem  to 
be  sufferin'.  No,  they  were  havin'  a  good  time,  singing, 
cutting  up,  and  raising  the  Old  Harry,  as  they  drew 
their  sleds  along.  It  depends  on  what  you're  used  to. 
The  warmer  a  man  dresses,  the  more  he  feels  the  cold. 

"I  never  had  any  great  liking  for  the  Injuns,  but  they 


2i6      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

had  their  good  points.  If  one  of  'em  owed  you,  and  he 
had  a  streak  of  luck  he'd  work  his  best  to  get  the  money 
to  pay  you.  He'd  come  and  pay  you  if  he  could,  even 
after  years  had  gone  by.  But  you  take  a  white  man, 
and  the  longer  he  owes  you  the  worse  he  hates  to  pay 
you.  Ah,  you  want  to  collect  a  debt  quick,  for  the 
chances  of  payment  grow  slimmer  all  the  time. 

"The  whites  and  the  Injuns  have  had  their  wars, 
but  you  really  couldn't  blame  the  Injuns  for  bein'  hostile 
once  in  a  while.  See  how  the  whites  destroyed  the 
animals  the  Injuns  depended  on  for  subsistence — killed 
'em  for  sport  and  the  markets.  People  tell  about  the 
Injuns  bein'  cruel  and  barbarous  in  their  warfare,  but 
the  whites  were  a  darn  sight  worse.  The  whites  showed 
no  mercy  whatever.  Sometimes  an  Injun  would  steal 
a  little,  but  good  heavens!  look  at  what  the  whites 
would  steal  from  the  Injuns.  In  some  way  or  other 
they'd  get  all  the  Injuns  had;  and  it  was  natural  for  the 
whites  to  kind  of  stick  together  and  defend  one  another 
whether  they  were  right  or  not.  It's  the  same  in  our 
treatment  of  the  negroes — we  ain't  fair,  we  ain't  just. 
The  truth  is,  the  white  man  is  the  worst  animal  there 
is — and  the  best. 

"The  woods  used  to  be  full  of  trappers  everywhere, 
and  there's  lots  of  'em  even  yet.  Father  and  I  would  go 
about  fifteen  miles  south  of  here  to  where  the  country 
was  all  full  of  swamps  and  lakes  and  the  finest  hard 
timber.  We'd  go  early  in  October  carrying  all  the 
blankets  and  provisions  we  could  stagger  under.    The 


Examining  the  nets 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  217 

first  thing  we  did  was  to  fix  up  our  camps  and  get  our 
traps  out  around.  At  our  main  camp  we  had  a  good  log 
cabin  with  a  puncheon  roof.  The  roof  had  just  one 
slant  and  was  made  of  small  straight  pine  and  cedar 
logs.  These  were  split  once,  and  hollowed  a  little  on 
the  flat  side,  and  then  fitted  to  each  other,  first  one 
turned  up  and  next  one  turned  down  so  the  edges  fitted 
into  the  hollows.  The  cracks  were  caulked  with  moss 
to  prevent  the  roof  from  leaking.  In  the  cabin,  on  the 
high  side,  we  made  a  fireplace  and  chimney  of  big,  heavy 
puncheons  set  on  end  and  running  up  through  the  roof 
a  little.  At  the  front  of  the  fireplace  the  puncheons 
rested  on  a  crosspiece  about  five  feet  from  the  floor. 
We  didn't  build  the  fire  near  enough  to  the  puncheons 
so  they'd  burn,  but  they'd  get  awful  black  with  a  coat- 
ing of  sut.  The  cabin  had  no  windows.  We  dressed  the 
hides  outside,  or,  if  the  weather  was  bad,  by  the  fire. 
"We  had  trails  off  every  way  from  our  main  camp, 
and  in  the  fall  and  early  winter  when  the  days  were 
short  we  couldn't  always  make  the  rounds  and  get  back. 
So  we  had  some  little  leantos  at  the  more  distant  points 
and  often  stopped  in  'em  over  night.  In  three  or  four 
places  where  we  wanted  to  paddle  around  on  the  water 
we  kept  a  dugout.  We  had  our  lines  blazed  out  through 
the  wilderness  from  each  lake  or  stream  to  another  lake 
or  stream.  We'd  simply  mark  the  trees  that  came 
handiest,  and  if  the  underbrush  and  stuff  was  right  thick 
we'd  cut  it.  That  would  save  a  feller  from  takin'  a 
header  once  in  a  while.    After  a  time  a  slight  footpath 


21 8      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

was  worn  that  guided  us,  but  when  snow  came  we  had 
to  depend  on  the  blazes.  Later  we'd  tread  a  sort  of  dent 
in  the  snow  that  we  could  follow,  and  very  few  storms 
would  entirely  hide  it. 

"When  there  was  good  snowshoeing  we  could  always 
get  back  to  the  main  camp  at  night.  Oh,  yes,  you  could 
travel  twice  as  fur  on  snowshoes  as  you  could  when  the 
ground  was  bare,  and  be  less  tired.  Ten  or  twelve 
miles  tramping  in  the  woods  before  snow  came  was 
harder  than  twenty-five  or  thirty  miles  later  with  snow- 
shoes.  You  could  just  sail  right  along  with  those  on 
your  feet.  That's  partly  because  the  brush  was  covered 
up  or  bent  down  by  the  snow,  and  the  snow  had  leveled 
up  a  good  deal  over  the  logs,  stones,  hollers,  and  knolls. 

"Lots  of  times  we'd  make  a  trip  around  and  get 
nothing,  and  then  again  we'd  bring  back  a  good  load. 
If  we  caught  an  animal  alive  we'd  skin  it  at  the  trap. 
It  didn't  take  long  to  pull  his  jacket  off.  We'd  use  the 
carcass  for  bait  or  throw  it  away.  Mink,  beaver,  and 
otter,  which  we  mostly  caught  under  water,  would  be 
drowned  but  not  frozen.  Martins,  fishers,  and  such 
animals  as  we'd  ketch  in  deadfalls  were  of  course  frozen 
stiff,  and  we  had  to  carry  'em  to  camp.  It  would  be  a 
day  or  two  before  they'd  thaw  out  so  we  could  take  off 
the  hides. 

"Every  eight  or  ten  days  we'd  come  back  home  to  get 
another  load  of  food.  We'd  fetch  in  our  furs  and  per- 
haps some  fresh  meat — a  deer  we'd  shot  or  a  good  fat 
coon  we'd  trapped.    Most  generally  we'd  stay  a  couple 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  219 

of  nights,  for  there  was  always  wood  to  cut  or  something 
else  to  do  to  fix  the  family  comfortable. 

"I've  read  stories  about  trapping  wild  animals  in  the 
woods,  but  they  weren't  much  like  what  I've  experi- 
enced. The  stories  would  have  a  good  deal  less  excite- 
ment in  'em  if  the  authors  told  the  truth.  It's  very 
rare  that  an  animal  will  attack  you.  He  only  does  it 
when  he  gets  cornered  and  can't  help  himself  any  other 
way.  Every  animal  will  fight  for  its  life.  Even  a  mouse, 
if  you  get  him  in  a  cup  so  he  can't  escape,  will  turn  on 
you.  He'll  bite  you,  by  George!  Yet,  let  him  have  a 
chance  to  run  and  away  he'll  go.  If  you  corner  a  buck 
he's  so  crazy  to  escape  he'll  stick  his  prongs  into  you, 
or  maybe  jump  over  your  head.  I  believe  one  of  these 
timber  deer,  if  he  had  a  good  start,  could  jump  over  this 
shanty.  Swamp  deer  are  somewhat  shorter  legged  and 
can't  makes  as  high  leaps. 

"The  Injuns  were  a  little  afraid  of  bears  and  wolves, 
but  I  don't  know  why.  I've  had  no  fear  of  their  at- 
tacktin'  me.  I  never  see  but  one  or  two  wolves,  and  I 
didn't  know  what  they  was  they  was  so  gentle.  I 
thought  they  was  big  dogs.  But  I  know  their  tracks. 
The  two  front  toes  reach  out  longer  than  a  dog's  and 
the  foot  makes  a  more  diamond  shaped  print. 

"Of  course,  if  you  go  and  get  hold  of  cubs  when  the 
old  she-bear  is  around,  she  will  fight  and  cuff  you;  and 
a  man  must  expect  to  be  hurt  if  he  goes  to  ketchin'  hold 
of  a  wounded  animal.  You  can't  blame  a  creature  for 
fighting  that  has  a  big  steel  trap  on  its  foot,  though  you 


220      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

can  bet  he  would  put  himself  out  of  sight  in  a  hurry  if 
he  could  break  loose.  I've  heard  of  people  getting  hurt 
by  wild  animals  that  were  free  in  the  forest,  but  I  can't 
believe  it.  The  man  who  gets  hurt  under  such  circum- 
stances must  be  a  blame  fool.  I  didn't  consider  any  of 
the  animals  we  had  here  dangerous  to  man,  and  I  never 
lay  awake  nights  for  fear  of  'em.  Men  who've  lived 
among  'em  pay  no  more  attention  to  'em  than  to  domes- 
tic animals." 

Toward  the  end  of  the  day  the  fishermen  who  had 
been  out  in  the  boats  returned,  and  I  obtained  per- 
mission to  stay  over  night  in  the  home  of  one  of  them. 
While  supper  was  preparing  I  sat  by  the  stove  in  the 
kitchen,  a  large  room  that  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  single 
kerosene  lamp.  The  baby  was  toddling  about  the  floor 
and  frequently  getting  into  trouble  and  squalling  voci- 
ferously, which  sometimes  caused  the  mother  to  pick 
it  up  and  try  to  work  with  it  in  her  arms.  The  other 
children  were  all  uneasy  and  inclined  to  be  quarrelsome 
and  noisy.  They  regarded  the  food  on  the  table  with 
hungry  eyes,  and  one  of  the  small  boys  edged  around  to 
where  he  could  begin  eating  his  huckleberry  sauce. 
His  mother  presently  observed  him  and  ordered  him 
away,  but  he  soon  crept  back,  and,  crouching  in  the 
shadow  of  the  table  with  his  chin  on  the  level  with  its 
top,  he  continued  to  spoon  the  sauce  to  his  mouth  and 
stain  the  spread  at  the  same  time. 

By  and  by  the  fisherman,  who  had  been  milking  the 
cow,  cutting  up  firewood,  bringing  water  from  the  lake. 


School  children 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  221 

and  doing  other  small  tasks  came  in,  and  we  sat  down 
to  the  table.  After  supper,  he  and  I  drew  back  our 
chairs  and  talked,  while  the  mother  cleared  away  the 
dishes  and  got  the  children  off  to  bed.  We  heard  a 
motor  boat  go  past,  and  he  told  whose  it  was.  The 
sound  of  each  motor  had  its  individuality,  and  the  people 
along  shore  recognized  their  neighbors'  boats  without 
seeing  them.  He  and  the  other  fishermen  followed  their 
calling  the  year  around.  In  summer  they  were  out  on 
the  lake  in  their  gasoline  launches  from  seven  in  the 
morning  until  four  in  the  afternoon;  and  in  winter  they 
went  with  dog  teams  and  fished  through  the  ice. 

"When  we're  winter  fishing,"  said  he,  "my  brother 
and  I  cut  three  holes  apiece  where  the  bottom  has  a 
gradual  pitch,  and  the  three  holes  are  each  over  a  dif- 
ferent depth,  for  the  fish  have  a  way  of  biting  in  one 
depth  for  a  while  and  then  quitting  and  biting  at 
another  depth.  We  hang  around  and  watch  our  lines, 
and  when  a  fish  gives  two  or  three  little  bobs  at  a  hook 
we  make  a  grab.  It's  lake  trout  we  get  mostly  in  winter. 
We  ketch  'em  up  to  about  forty  pounds.  Sturgeon  are 
the  only  fish  in  these  waters  that  grow  larger,  and 
they're  scarce.  A  big  one  will  weigh  eighty  pounds  or 
more.  We  didn't  use  to  think  they  were  good  for  any- 
thing, but  now,  by  Jove!  they  bring  about  the  best 
price. 

"Our  summer  fishing  is  largely  done  with  nets,  but 
we  use  lines,  too — lines  that  are  maybe  a  couple  of  miles 
long  and  have  a  hook  every  twenty  feet.     Once  in  a 


222      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

while  we  run  across  a  lawyer  streak  with  our  lines,  and 
'bout  every  hook  will  have  a  lawyer  on  it.  These  law- 
yers, or  bullheads  as  they're  called  by  some,  are  ugly 
lookin'  fish — too  much  like  a  lizard,  and  the  taste  is 
nothing  extra,  but  the  flesh  is  white,  and  there's  not 
many  bones.  One  time  a  fellow  down  here  at  Munising 
went  to  skinning  'em  and  calling  'em  'fresh  water  cod' 
and  he  worked  up  quite  a  trade  at  ten  and  twelve  cents 
a  pound.  People  who  didn't  know  what  fish  it  really 
was  thought  'twas  fine.  He  was  an  old  Canadian 
Scotchman,  and  rather  an  undesirable  citizen,  with  a 
habit  of  lifting  other  people's  nets,  and  examining  their 
hooks.  Oh,  he  was  a  bad  one!  He'd  fish  in  the  brooks 
for  trout,  and  if  he  couldn't  ketch  'em  with  a  hook  and 
line  he'd  dynamite  the  streams.  He  lived  from  hand  to 
mouth,  and  when  he  got  a  little  more  money  than  would 
pay  for  his  next  meal  he'd  spend  it  for  whiskey.  If  he 
was  put  in  jail  he  didn't  care.  Then  the  public  had  to 
feed  him  and  his  family,  too.  He  was  just  as  contented 
in  that  jail  eatin'  three  meals  a  day,  as  he  was  outside. 
So  finally  they  shipped  him  back  to  Canada. 

"I  didn't  use  to  stick  to  fishing  as  closely  as  I  do  now. 
There  was  a  time  when  I  hunted  deer  for  the  Detroit 
market.  We  had  a  three  months'  open  season  then 
beginning  August  15th,  and  I  made  a  pretty  good  thing. 
I  hunted  in  the  forest  south  of  here.  Another  fellow 
hunted  with  me,  and  we  had  several  tents  and  log  shacks 
for  camps.  We  kept  a  horse  and  wagon  then,  and  hired 
a  man  to  do  the  camp  cooking,  get  wood  for  the  fire,  and 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  223 

take  the  game  to  the  railroad  station.  I've  killed  as 
high  as  seven  deer  in  a  day.  We'd  hunt  from  daylight 
to  dark.  The  deer  feed  very  early  in  the  morning  and 
again  along  late  in  the  afternoon.  But  I  used  to  shoot 
a  good  many  that  were  lying  down.  About  noon,  if  few 
hunters  were  in  the  woods,  they'd  be  resting  on  the 
hills,  where  they  could  look  well  to  leeward.  They 
depended  on  their  scent  to  guard  'em  from  the  other 
direction.  If  they'd  been  much  disturbed  they'd  go  to 
the  swamps. 

"Sometimes  I'd  kill  a  deer  six  or  eight  miles  from 
camp.  Then  I'd  carry  it  to  some  lumbering  road  where 
the  team  could  be  sent  to  pick  it  up.  I  didn't  leave  it 
on  the  ground,  for  the  flesh  would  have  soured  and  ani- 
mals would  have  eaten  it;  but  I'd  hang  it  on  a  limb  and 
tie  a  paper  to  a  string  beside  it  to  dangle  around  and 
scare  off  the  birds.  It  was  within  easy  reach  of  the 
wolves,  but  a  wolf  won't  take  anything  in  this  country 
that's  hung  up.  He's  suspicious  and  won't  go  near  it 
at  all.  I've  seen  where  a  drove  of  wolves  come  within 
sight  of  a  deer  hanging  up,  and  then  turned  and  run. 

"A  bear's  different.  He'll  take  any  meat  he  can  get  at. 
He  don't  care  as  long  as  no  one  is  around  at  the  time. 
I  guess  he'd  take  it  off  the  corner  of  your  shanty  after 
dark.  If  he  gets  your  deer  he'll  drag  it  away  a  piece, 
eat  all  he  wants  and  bury  the  rest  with  leaves  and  sticks. 
You  can  generally  calculate  on  his  coming  back  after 
the  buried  meat  the  second  night.  Then  perhaps  I'd 
trap  or  shoot  him;  but  if  it  was  too  early  in  the  season 


224     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

for  his  hide  to  be  good  I  wouldn't  bother.  Once  I  had 
a  ham  hung  up  on  a  sapling.  I'd  bent  the  sapling 
down,  cut  off  the  top,  tied  on  the  ham,  and  let  it 
swing  up  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  in  the  air.  But  a  bear 
come  along  later,  bent  down  the  sapling  and  went  off 
with  the  ham.  I  saw  his  claw  marks  on  the  bark  of  the 
sapling. 

"There's  still  occasional  wolves  near  here.  Bounty 
and  hide  together  a  wolf  fetches  about  fifty  dollars. 
P'ison  is  about  the  best  thing  to  work  with  if  you  are 
after  wolves,  but  by  the  time  you've  p'isoned  one  or  two 
out  of  a  flock  the  rest  have  got  cute  and  won't  touch 
nothin'.    Then  you  have  to  try  some  other  scheme." 

Bedtime  had  come,  and  the  fisherman  showed  me  to 
my  room.  To  go  upstairs  we  had  to  push  aside  a  piece 
of  old  sail  tacked  up  to  serve  instead  of  a  door  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  and  we  had  to  step  over  a  board  nailed 
across  to  keep  the  baby  from  climbing  out  of  sight  and 
hearing.  My  room  was  rather  small  and  forlorn.  There 
was  little  furniture,  and  the  white  plaster  walls  had 
never  been  papered.  However,  that  mattered  little, 
for  the  window  opened  toward  the  lake  and  I  was  soon 
lulled  to  sleep  by  the  waves  lapping  along  the  shore. 

When  I  went  back  to  the  town  the  next  day  it  was  on 
one  of  the  fishermen's  launches.  I  lay  in  the  warm 
sunshine  on  the  deck  while  the  boat  cleft  its  swift  way 
through  the  clear  water,  and  skimmed  along  past  the 
wooded  shores  with  their  golden  foliaged  hardwood, 
and  their  dark  evergreen  spires.     The  experience  was 


The  duck  hunter 


The  Region  of  the  Pictured  Rocks  225 

delightful,  and  that  water  journey  and  my  stay  in  the 
idyllic  little  fishing  village  are  among  the  pleasantest 
memories  I  have  of  the  Great  Lakes. 

Note. — The  Pictured  Rocks  have  such  repute  that  passenger 
steamers  on  Lake  Superior,  when  the  weather  permits,  approach  as 
near  shore  as  possible  to  afford  a  view  of  them.  But  the  best  way  to 
see  this  fantastic  and  romantic  five-mile  stretch  of  sandstone 
bluffs  with  its  staining  of  color  and  its  cascades,  is  to  go  there  from 
Munising  in  a  motor  boat.  Sail  Rock,  which  resembles  a  sloop  in 
full  sail,  the  Grand  Portal,  and  the  Chapel,  are  perhaps  the  most 
striking  features  of  the  series  of  cliffs.  This  vicinity  is  in  the  heart 
of  the  Hiawatha  country,  and  Munising  occupies  the  site  of  the 
wigwam  of  Nokomis.  Grand  Island,  which  lies  off  shore  here  has 
marked  attractions  as  a  summer  resort.  There  is  good  fishing  in 
the  region,  and  Lake  Superior  fish  have  the  reputation  of  being 
better  than  those  from  any  of  its  companion  lakes.  Superior  is  the 
greatest  body  of  fresh  water  on  the  globe,  and  has  an  average  depth 
of  nine  hundred  feet,  while  Erie,  the  shallowest  of  the  lakes,  averages 
only  eighty-four  feet.  The  coast  line  of  Superior  is  very  irregular 
and  has  a  length  of  fifteen  hundred  miles.  It  is  generally  rockbound 
and  its  shores  excel  in  picturesqueness.  Its  size  and  depth  and 
northerly  situation  combine  to  keep  its  waters  very  cold  even  in 
midsummer,  and  this  with  the  clearness  of  the  water  give  the  fish 
their  fine  quality. 


XI 


THE     COPPER     COUNTRY 

FROM  the  broad  peninsula  that  reaches  up  into 
Lake  Superior  and  forms  the  most  northerly 
portion  of  the  state  of  Michigan  comes  one- 
seventh  of  the  world's  production  of  copper.  I  wanted 
to  see  the  region,  and  in  particular  I  wanted  to  see  the 
famous  Calumet  and  Hecla  mine.  It  was  my  hope  that 
the  scenery  would  be  wildly  impressive,  and  that  the 
aspect  of  the  mine  would  in  some  way  be  romantically 
interesting.  But  the  country  is  a  rather  featureless 
rolling  upland,  and  the  mine  is  in  the  midst  of  a  city  of 
forty  thousand  people,  and  what  you  see  of  the  property 
at  the  surface  is  scarcely  more  impressive  than  a  group 
of  factory  buildings  would  be.  Calumet,  as  the  city  is 
called,  is  notably  clean,  substantially  built  and  attrac- 
tive. Its  streets  are  wide  and  well  paved,  excellent 
roads  lead  out  into  the  farm  country  surrounding,  and 
here  and  there  among  the  buildings  rise  dark  Lombardy 
poplars — trees  that  give  a  touch  of  distinction  and 
scenic  decorativeness  to  any  place.  A  slight  ridge  runs 
through  the  town  and  continues  far  out  into  the  regions 
adjacent.  This  marks  the  copper-bearing  streak  of 
rock,  and  at  intervals  on  it  are  huddles  of  mine  build- 
ings and  smoke-belching  chimneys. 


The  Copper  Country  227 

Copper  was  mined  on  the  peninsula  as  early  as  1843, 
and  much  rich  ore  was  taken  out  long  before  the  Calu- 
met lode  was  discovered.  When  I  began  to  inquire 
where  I  could  get  first  hand  information  about  the 
beginnings  of  the  Calumet  and  Hecla  mine  I  was 
directed  to  a  somewhat  eccentric  German  who  was  an 
early  comer  to  the  region.  "He's  got  a  little  saloon  in 
a  ramshackle  building  he  owns  on  one  of  the  main  busi- 
ness streets,"  I  was  told.  "The  saloon  is  in  the  back 
corner  of  a  large  room,  and  the  rest  of  the  space  is  fur- 
nished with  rude  counters  and  tables.  Travelling  men 
rent  the  privilege  of  showing  their  goods  there.  You'll 
find  him  sitting  by  the  stove  near  his  bar.  He's  an  old 
man  now.  There's  not  many  customers  to  bother  him, 
so  he  has  plenty  of  time  to  talk  with  you.  You  wouldn't 
think  to  see  him  that  he  was  a  millionaire,  but  he  is. 
He  commenced,  at  the  very  first,  to  buy  Calumet  and 
Hecla  stock,  and  he's  been  putting  his  income  into  that 
stock  ever  since.  Its  par  value  is  twenty-five  dollars  a 
share,  but  the  shares  have  sold  for  more  than  a  thousand 
dollars,  and  in  the  last  forty  years  the  company  has  paid 
over  a  hundred  million  dollars  in  dividends.  The  old 
German's  chief  pleasure  in  life  has  been  the  accumula- 
tion of  money,  and  his  chief  sorrow  the  necessity  of 
spending  some  of  it.  The  pennies  have  always  looked 
large  to  him,  and  he  has  let  none  escape  from  him  when 
he  could  possibly  avoid  such  a  misfortune.  In  fact, 
he  has  the  reputation  of  being  the  most  tight-fisted  man 
in  Michigan.     It's  told  that  he  once  off"ered  the  small 


228      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

boys  on  the  street  ten  cents  apiece  for  any  empty  wine 
barrels  they'd  bring  to  him.  He  knew  very  well  he  was 
simply  inducing  them  to  steal  from  the  premises  of 
other  saloon-keepers,  but  that  didn't  trouble  him.  He 
could  sell  the  barrels  for  a  dollar  and  a  half  each,  and  he 
paid  for  all  the  boys  secured  and  asked  no  questions. 
But  his  game  was  discovered  after  a  while,  and  such  a 
row  was  made  that  he  quit. 

"Before  the  electric  road  was  built  from  here  to  Lake 
Linden  he  used  to  drive  a  dray  and  take  baggage  back 
and  forth  for  travelling  men.  On  a  cold  winter  day  one 
of  these  travelling  men  noticed  that  the  old  man  had  no 
gloves,  and  he  took  him  into  a  store  and  bought  him  a 
pair.  The  traveller  afterward,  with  some  pride,  in- 
formed certain  Calumet  people  how  he  had  befriended 
the  old  dray  driver.  They  laughed  at  him.  'Why!' 
they  said,  'that  fellow  is  not  so  poverty-stricken  as 
you  suppose.  He  could  buy  out  you,  and  the  firm  you 
represent,  too.  He's  worth  a  good  many  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  dollars.' 

"A  reporter  once  made  him  very  wrathy  by  printing 
in  the  paper  some  disparaging  comments  on  his  parsi- 
mony, and  immediately  afterward  the  public  were 
treated  to  the  spectacle  of  seeing  him  follow  the  reporter 
up  the  street  brandishing  an  ax.  It  looked  as  if  there 
might  be  a  bloody  tragedy,  but  the  old  man  had  too 
good  a  business  sense  of  the  disastrous  consequences 
to  himself  if  he  actually  committed  an  assault,  and  he 
did  not  go  beyond  noise  and  bluster." 


The  well 


The  Copper  Country  229 

I  was  sufficiently  Interested  to  hunt  up  the  old  man's 
place  of  business,  and  when  I  went  in  he  sat  beside  the 
stove  near  his  dingy  bar,  with  a  blanket  wrapped  about 
his  feeble  and  withered  form.  "It  was  fifty-six  years 
ago  that  I  came  to  the  copper  peninsula,"  said  he. 
"Mines  had  been  started  along  the  shore,  but  when  the 
Civil  War  came  to  an  end  the  price  of  copper  dropped 
from  forty-five  cents  a  pound  to  fifteen  and  knocked 
'em  all  higher'n  a  kite.  Besides  that,  the  ore  was  rotten 
after  they  got  down  two  or  three  hundred  feet.  'Twas 
so  poor  it  wouldn't  pay  to  mine  it  the  way  they  handled 
ore  then,  even  if  copper  had  been  worth  much  more  than 
fifteen  cents.  But  now  processes  are  so  perfected 
there's  a  profit  in  handling  ore  with  only  one  per  cent, 
of  metal  in  it.    Some  of  the  mines  are  a  mile  deep. 

"Right  across  the  street  here  in  the  olden  time  was  an 
Indian  camp.  A  white  man  bought  the  Indians  out  for 
a  little  whiskey  or  something,  and  they  moved  on. 
Then  he  put  up  a  log  cabin,  which  he  called  the  'Half- 
Way  House,'  because  it  was  half  way  between  the 
Quincy  mine  to  the  south  and  the  Cliff  mine  to  the 
north.  It  was  the  only  house  here.  He  sold  liquor, 
and  he  kept  travellers  over  night.  For  the  privilege  of 
sleeping  on  the  floor  he  charged  fifty  cents.  There  was 
straw  to  lie  on,  but  no  blankets  were  furnished  out  here 
in  the  bush  in  them  days.  You  didn't  suff"er,  though. 
There  was  a  good  fire. 

"In  the  autumn  of  1865  I  was  working  down  at  Han- 
cock on  Portage  Lake,  thirteen  miles  from  here,  and 


230      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

the  man  from  the  Half- Way  House  was  down  there  one 
day  and  happened  to  run  across  me.  He  said  he  wanted 
to  buy  a  sow,  and  I  told  him  where  he  could  get  one. 
Later  in  the  day  I  saw  him  going  back  with  the  sow  on  a 
big  rough  lumber  wagon.  It  was  all  woods  the  whole 
distance — no  roads  whatever — only  blazed  trails,  but 
he  got  home  all  right.  After  a  while  the  sow  had  a  litter 
of  pigs  in  a  hole  left  by  the  roots  of  a  big  pine  tree  that 
had  blown  over.  When  the  man  went  into  the  hole  to 
ketch  the  pigs  he  disturbed  the  leaves  and  rubbish  that 
had  accumulated  there  and  found  chunks  of  copper 
scattered  around.  That  was  the  way  this  rich  thing — 
the  Calumet  lode — was  discovered.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  sow  this  vein  of  copper  might  still  be  unknown. 
"A  company  at  once  prepared  to  develop  the  prop- 
erty. The  land  around  was  wild,  barren,  and  naturally 
almost  worthless,  but  they  paid  twelve  thousand  dollars 
for  three  hundred  and  twenty  acres.  I  hauled  the  first 
copper  ore  from  Calumet  to  Hancock,  where  there  was 
a  crusher.  That  winter  a  hundred  or  more  teams  were 
going  back  and  forth,  and  the  road  would  wear  full  of 
pitch  holes.  We  had  men  working  nights  shoveling 
snow  into  the  holes  and  pouring  on  water  to  freeze  a 
smooth  road.  The  mining  company  built  some  houses, 
close  around  the  mine,  at  first  of  squared  timber  and 
then  frame  buildings,  and  a  little  settlement  began  to 
grow  here  in  the  woods.  There  was  from  five  to  twenty- 
five  per  cent,  of  copper  in  the  Calumet  and  Hecia  ore, 
but  no  dividends  were  paid  until  1870." 


Binding  barley 


The  Copper  Country  231 

In  my  acquaintance  with  the  town  I  could  not  but 
be  impressed  with  the  cosmopoHtan  character  of  its 
inhabitants.  The  mine  workers  include  about  thirty 
different  nationalities.  Finns  predominate,  and  Aus- 
trians  and  Italians  are  particularly  numerous.  Many 
of  them  have  an  ambition  to  go  back  to  the  old  country, 
and  simply  work  and  save  here  a  few  years,  and  then 
return  to  their  native  land.  They  carry  enough  with 
them  to  establish  themselves  there  comfortably  and 
lift  themselves  out  of  what  had  formerly  been  a  grinding 
poverty.  The  Finns,  however,  stay  in  America,  for 
since  Finland  has  been  "gobbled  up"  by  Russia  they 
don't  feel  that  they  have  any  country.  In  a  year  or 
two  a  man  will  earn  enough  to  bring  his  family  across 
the  Atlantic.  To  many  of  the  Finns  mining  is  simply 
a  temporary  makeshift.  They  have  a  liking  for  agri- 
culture— especially  for  dairying,  and  they  soon  buy  a 
little  farm. 

Some  of  the  early  comers  from  abroad  started  small 
stores  in  the  town.  They  sold  goods,  but  besides  were 
often  caretakers  of  their  countrymen's  money.  The 
immigrants  wouldn't  trust  the  banks,  and  they  turned 
over  their  savings  to  the  merchants  without  requiring 
either  security  or  interest — nothing  but  a  receipt.  The 
merchants  invested  the  money  at  eight  or  ten  per  cent, 
and  it  was  an  important  factor  in  making  them  wealthy. 
They  have  had  the  use  of  that  money  forty  years  or 
more  in  some  instances. 

The  price  of  copper  has  dropped  radically  of  late 


232      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

years,  and  in  consequence  dividends  have  been  cut  and 
wages  lowered.  "But  we  are  not  kicking,"  said  one 
man  with  whom  I  talked.  "We've  always  had  steady 
employment  here,  and  while  the  employers  are  perhaps 
selfish  like  the  rest  of  the  world  and  look  out  pretty 
sharply  for  their  own  interests  they  have  treated  us 
reasonably  well." 

Work  underground  does  not  seem  to  be  disliked  by 
the  men,  and  sons  of  miners  become  miners  in  their  turn 
as  a  matter  of  course.  The  Calumet  and  Hecla  Com- 
pany alone  employs  about  five  thousand  men  under- 
ground, which  represents  about  half  the  entire  force  of 
such  workers  in  the  district.  The  men  work  in  two  ten 
hour  shifts.  "I  know  men,"  one  of  my  acquaintances 
observed,  "who've  worked  down  below  for  ten  or  fifteen 
years,  but  in  spite  of  spending  so  many  hours  of  every 
day  out  of  the  sunshine  in  darkness  that's  only  lighted 
by  the  little  candles  in  their  hats,  they  are  as  hearty  and 
happy  as  they  were  at  first.  Apparently  the  mine  has 
no  bad  effect  on  a  man's  health,  unless  perhaps  the 
dampness  brings  on  rheumatism." 

One  day  I  walked  to  Lake  Linden,  five  miles  distant. 
A  raw  chilly  wind  was  blowing,  but  the  sky  was  almost 
cloudless,  and  there  was  an  agreeable  and  satisfying 
warmth  on  protected  slopes  and  on  the  sunny  side  of 
buildings.  The  land  had  been  cleared  in  recent  years, 
and  stumps  were  plentiful  even  in  the  cultivated  fields, 
though  they  were  thickest  in  the  pastures  where  the 
cattle  and  horses  were  grazing.     But  the  farmers  were 


The  Copper  Country  233 

gradually  pulling  them  up  and  burning  them,  either  in 
the  field,  or  for  firewood  in  the  home  stoves.  I  met 
numerous  loads  of  potatoes  that  were  going  to  the 
town,  and  in  wayside  fields  others  were  being  dug. 
Most  of  the  diggers  were  men,  but  not  infrequently 
women  with  their  skirts  fluttering  in  the  wind  were 
helping.  The  earth  was  yielding  bountifully,  and  the 
smooth  big  tubers,  as  fork  or  hook  tossed  them  out, 
made  a  fair  and  delightful  sight  to  any  lover  of  good 
husbandry. 

The  farmers  to  whom  I  spoke  showed  the  potatoes 
with  pride,  and  doubted  if  anywhere  in  the  world  I 
would  find  the  soil  doing  much  better.  Some  raised 
oats  and  barley,  turnips  and  garden  truck,  but  potatoes 
seemed  to  be  the  main  crop.  One  man  affirmed  that 
the  potatoes  were  not  bringing  the  price  they  ought  to 
bring  in  the  town,  and  in  explanation  said  a  good  many 
farmers  were  indebted  to  the  grocers  after  a  fashion 
that  enabled  the  latter  to  set  their  own  price  on  the 
products  they  received  in  payment.  The  grocers  had 
been  furnishing  food  supplies  to  these  farmers  on 
credit,  and  they  could  oblige  them  to  deliver  the  pota- 
toes at  their  pleasure  and  accept  whatever  they  chose 
to  give.  For  a  time  in  the  fall  this  method  of  liquidat- 
ing debts  kept  the  price  low,  but  as  a  whole  the  big 
town  was  an  excellent  market. 

The  farmhouses  sometimes  commanded  beautiful 
and  far-reaching  views  over  the  eastern  lowlands  even 
to  the  blue  waters  of  Lake  Superior,  but  the  dwellings 


234      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

were  small,  unshaded  by  trees,  and  ungraced  by  shrub- 
bery or  vines.  Often  they  were  merely  unpainted 
shacks,  and  a  huddle  of  sheds  served  instead  of  a  barn, 
and  wagons  and  farm  implements  and  litter  were  all 
about.  Their  aspect  was  almost  wholly  dreary,  yet  the 
bounty  that  the  earth  yielded  was  to  the  inmates  prob- 
ably ample  compensation. 

One  of  my  wayside  acquaintances  was  an  Englishman 
from  the  county  of  Cornwall.  He  had  worked  many 
years  in  the  copper  mines,  and  I  asked  him  about  the 
dangers  of  the  occupation.  "I've  been  very  lucky," 
said  he,  "in  the  matter  of  accidents.  The  worst  thing 
that  ever  happened  to  me  was  to  have  a  big  gob  of  earth 
drop  on  my  head.  It  nearly  broke  my  neck,  and  if  It 
had  been  stone  it  would  have  finished  me.  You  never 
know  when  a  mass  of  rock  hanging  loose  up  above  may 
drop  on  to  you,  and  there's  always  the  risk  that  a  blast 
may  go  off  when  you're  not  safely  sheltered.  A  good 
many  of  my  old  comrades  have  been  killed.  Hodge  Is 
gone,  and  Farrell,  and  lots  of  others.  It's  rare  a  month 
goes  past  but  that  someone  is  killed,  and  the  monthly 
average  is  five  or  six.  However,  that's  not  a  very  high 
proportion  considering  the  great  number  of  men  that 
are  employed.  A  single  death  at  a  time  causes  no  excite- 
ment, and  gets  scarcely  more  than  passing  comment. 
Yet  perhaps  the  fellow  killed  may  have  a  family  in  the 
old  country,  or  be  supporting  a  poor  mother  over  there. 

"Once  a  cable  broke,  a  car  dropped,  and  ten  men 
were  killed.    Another  time  there  was  an  explosion  and 


The  kite-fixers 


The  Copper  Country  235 

a  fire  down  in  a  mine.  Most  of  the  men  got  out,  but 
quite  a  number  were  still  missing  when  the  company- 
closed  the  openings  in  order  to  smother  the  fire  and 
save  the  timber  supports  in  the  mine.  The  chances 
were  that  the  men  were  all  dead,  but  there's  been  bitter 
feeling  against  the  company  ever  since  because  it 
seemed  more  eager  to  save  dollars  than  to  save  lives. 
After  the  fire  was  out  they  brought  up  the  bodies  of  the 
men  who  had  perished.  There  were  thirty  of  them, 
and  I  saw  them  laid  out  at  the  mouth  of  the  mine." 

Every  little  while  a  train  of  small  dump  cars  loaded 
with  ore  slid  down  the  long  descent  from  the  Calumet 
ridge  to  Lake  Linden,  where  there  was  a  great  crushing 
plant.  After  the  rock  has  been  pulverized  and  the 
copper  extracted,  the  waste  is  carried  away  in  a  muddy 
stream  through  a  flume  that  empties  on  to  a  growing 
pile  of  sediment  of  mammoth  proportions.  The  pile  is, 
in  fact,  now  a  considerable  hill  covering  many  acres. 
It  is  a  reddish  barren  mass  of  earth  on  which  not  a  thing 
grows,  and  it  is  gradually  encroaching  on  the  lake. 
Formerly  the  lake  water  was  bright  and  clear,  and  was 
a  favorite  resort  for  fishermen.  Now  the  water  is 
clouded  with  sediment,  and  no  more  fish  are  caught. 

The  commercial  center  of  the  copper  peninsula  is 
at  the  twin  cities  of  Hancock  and  Houghton  on  Portage 
Lake.  This  lake  is  so  attenuated  just  there  that  it 
would  easily  be  mistaken  for  a  river,  and  a  drawbridge 
of  moderate  length  serves  to  span  it  and  connect  the 
two  cities.     Some  ancient  convulsion,  or  other  chance, 


236      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

left  a  rift  right  across  the  peninsula.  A  deep  slender 
lake  filled  most  of  the  rift,  but  where  this  lake  at  either 
end  approached  the  greater  lake  there  were  marshes 
around  which  the  Indians  and  early  navigators  had  to 
make  a  portage.  About  forty  years  ago  a  channel  was 
dredged  through  the  marshes,  and  now  the  big  freighters 
and  steamers  that  plough  the  lakes  pass  freely  through. 
Most  of  the  enormous  output  of  the  mines  is  sent  away 
by  boat  from  the  two  cities  on  Portage  Lake,  and  a 
single  vessel  has  been  known  to  carry  a  cargo  of  copper 
from  here  valued  at  over  a  million  dollars. 

The  land  rises  on  either  side  of  the  waterway  very 
steeply,  and  the  lateral  streets  of  the  towns  cling  along 
the  slopes  in  successive  terraces.  On  the  Houghton 
side  the  cross  streets  climb  to  rocky  upland  where  the 
children  fly  their  kites,  and  the  cows  pasture.  Across 
the  narrow  lake,  the  lofty  hill  behind  the  town  Is  of 
comparatively  smooth  turf  and  earth  much  furrowed 
with  deep  ravines.  On  the  summit  can  be  seen  tall 
structures  at  the  mouth  of  mines  with  accompanying 
chimneys  and  huge  dumps  of  stone,  and  ore  trains  are 
in  sight  up  there  moving  about,  toy-like  In  the  distance. 
Big  freighters  pass  at  Intervals  on  the  lake,  others  are 
taking  on  copper  or  unloading  coal,  motor  boats  are 
making  trips  hither  and  thither,  and  gulls  are  flitting 
about  and  drifting  on  the  water.  The  combination  of 
mines  and  shipping,  thrifty  towns  and  Imposing  scenery 
was  very  attractive. 

I    was    informed    that   millionaires    were    numerous 


The  Copper  Country  237 

among  the  local  inhabitants,  and  that  there  were  no 
poor  whatever.  The  minimum  wage  for  day  laborers  was 
asserted  to  be  three  dollars.  As  to  the  past  of  the  towns, 
what  interested  me  most  was  the  story  of  a  fire  that 
nearly  wiped  out  Hancock.  "That  fire  was  in  1869," 
said  an  informant,  "and  I  came  near  missing  it.  I'd  had  a 
little  scrap  with  my  old  man,  and  I  drew  a  hundred 
dollars  from  the  bank  and  went  down  to  Chicago. 
Every  day  while  I  was  there  I  got  a  letter  from  mother 
asking  me  to  come  home.  Father  wanted  me  back,  too, 
but  he  wouldn't  say  so.  He  was  one  of  them  fellers 
that  are  rough  at  times,  but  good  at  heart,  and  he  got 
mother  to  do  the  soft-soaping.  I  stayed  a  month  loafing 
around  sight-seeing.  I  didn't  look  for  any  job,  because 
I  kind  of  expected  to  come  back.  Well,  on  the  Sunday 
after  I  got  here  we  had  that  fire.  At  that  time  Hancock 
was  a  wild  West  town  ten  years  old.  Yes,  it  was  a 
rough  place  then,  and  we  thought  nothing  of  seeing 
half  a  dozen  saloon  fronts  smashed.  Some  feller  who 
was  raising  a  disturbance  would  be  thrown  out,  and 
he'd  throw  cordwood  or  a  beer  barrel  in,  and  the  fellers 
inside  would  chuck  some  things  back  at  him.  Cordwood 
was  always  handy.  We  burned  it  in  our  stoves,  and  it 
was  delivered  right  at  our  front  doors.  The  pile  was 
left  there  till  we  got  good  and  ready  to  store  it  else- 
where; or  perhaps  it  was  never  moved  at  all  except  as 
we  gradually  took  it  in  as  we  wanted  the  wood  to  use. 
"The  town  had  no  fire  protection,  and  there  wasn't 
a  stone  or  brick  building  in  the  place.    They  were  all 


238      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

frame  structures,  mostly  two  stories  high.     In  case  of 
fire  we'd  fill  pails  and  try  to  put  It  out  that  way. 

"About  eight  o'clock  that  Sunday  morning,  the 
eleventh  of  April,  someone  hollered,  'Fire!'  On  the 
other  side  of  the  street  from  our  place  was  a  saloon 
run  by  a  Frenchman.  They'd  had  a  wedding  there  that 
started  Saturday  night.  In  the  back  part  of  the  build- 
ing was  a  dining  room  they'd  cleared  up  to  have  a  dance 
In  connection  with  the  wedding.  Oh,  we'd  very  likely 
have  twenty  dances  along  the  street  here  on  a  Saturday 
night  In  them  days,  and  they'd  last  till  it  was  time  to 
go  to  church  the  next  morning.  That  chivaree  at  the 
Frenchman's  was  still  going  on  when  a  lamp  got  knocked 
over,  and  all  at  once  the  house  was  ablaze.  The  wind 
was  blowing,  the  fire  got  fiercer,  and  leaped  across  to 
our  side  of  the  street.  We  had  a  boarding-house,  and 
every  boarder  grabbed  something  and  went  out  the 
back  door.  In  that  way  most  of  our  furniture  was 
saved.  The  last  thing  rescued  on  our  premises  was  the 
cow.  She  was  In  a  shed  behind  the  house.  We  had 
turned  her  loose  soon  after  the  fire  started,  but  she  ran 
back  in.  Now  the  boarders  got  hold  of  her,  and  two 
pulled  by  her  horns  and  another  licked  behind  so  she 
had  to  go  whether  she  wanted  to  or  not.  The  fire 
swept  on  and  only  stopped  when  there  was  nothing 
else  within  reach  to  burn.  The  business  section  of  the 
town  was  gone  and  most  of  the  residences,  but  there 
were  scattered  dwellings  left  on  the  hill,  and  the  people 
in  them  took  in  their  friends. 


On  Portage  Lake 


The  Copper  Country  239 

''Rebuilding  was  started  at  once,  and  Monday  after- 
noon we  were  selling  drinks  in  a  shack  right  on  our  lot. 
That  shack,  somewhat  enlarged  from  time  to  time, 
lasted  us  for  three  years.  We'd  have  put  up  a  good 
building  sooner,  but  the  company  we  was  insured  in 
failed.  However,  like  most  of  the  rest  that  had  fire 
losses,  we  gradually  recovered,  and  the  town  grew  up 
so  much  better  than  it  was  before  that  the  people  have 
never  mourned  much  over  the  disaster.  In  fact,  you 
take  Hancock  and  Houghton  together  and  there's 
hardly  any  cities  in  the  northwest,  no  matter  what  the 
size,  that  are  so  attractive  and  prosperous." 

Note. — ^The  copper  peninsula  claims  to  have  some  of  the  finest 
hotels  in  the  northwest,  and  the  traveller  can  sojourn  there  in  com- 
fort and  even  luxury.  Some  of  the  scenery  along  Portage  Lake  is 
imposingly  attractive,  and  the  busy  waterway  is  not  lacking  in 
interest,  but  among  the  mines  the  region  is  rather  soberly  monoton- 
ous; yet  here  is  a  great  industry  and  a  person  can  spend  at  least  a 
day  or  two  to  advantage  seeing  something  of  how  the  work  goes 
forward. 


XII 

THE    LAND    OF    IRON 

IN  the  vicinity  of  Lake  Superior,  in  the  three  states 
of  Michigan,  Wisconsin  and  Minnesota,  is  one  of 
the  greatest  iron-producing  regions  in  the  world. 
The  deposits  of  northern  Minnesota  are  particularly 
noteworthy,  and  their  vastness  makes  quite  plausible 
the  suggestion  that  here  the  mighty  Vulcan,  the  black- 
smith god,  located  his  forge.  Iron  was  first  discovered 
in  the  state  about  1880  at  Tower  on  Vermilion  Lake,  a 
hundred  miles  north  from  Duluth.  Tower  was  on  one  of 
the  main  routes  of  the  aborigines  through  the  wilder- 
ness. It  had  been  a  trading  post  of  the  famous  Hudson 
Bay  Company,  and  thither  Indians  paddled  from  the 
north  by  a  network  of  lakes  and  streams  with  their 
fur-laden  canoes.  Then  they  packed  the  furs  on  rudely- 
built  conveyances,  to  which  they  hitched  dogs,  and 
went  on  southward  by  the  Old  Vermilion  Trail  to  Fond 
du  Lac  at  the  head  of  Lake  Superior. 

When  iron  was  found  Tower  was  a  little  woodland 
settlement  of  only  a  few  houses,  and  the  first  white 
woman  to  be  numbered  among  its  inhabitants  had 
recently  arrived,  walking  from  Duluth  and  taking  four 
days  for  the  trip.  She  followed  a  tote  road  cut  through 
the  forest.     This  was  wide  enough  to  accommodate 


The  Land  of  Iron  241 

a  team,  but  was  chiefly  useful  for  bringing  in  supplies 
on  sleds  in  the  winter.  Mining  was  started,  and  the 
village  grew,  but  the  mining  operations  were  later 
transferred  about  two  miles  distant  to  Jasper  Peak,  a 
height  that  has  the  distinction  of  being  the  loftiest 
elevation  in  Minnesota,  though  it  is  scarcely  more  than 
a  ragged,  rounded  hill  and  is  in  no  wise  impressive. 
A  new  community  has  established  itself  at  the  foot  of 
the  Peak,  and  is  more  populous  than  the  older  town. 
The  shifting  of  the  mining  business  was  a  severe  blow 
to  Tower's  prosperity,  and  in  recent  years  its  chief 
support  has  come  from  two  great  sawmills  on  the  shores 
of  the  adjacent  lake.  But  now  the  lumber  in  the  imme- 
diate region  has  been  practically  exhausted,  and  the 
sawmills  will  soon  hum  with  industry  no  more. 

The  town,  as  I  saw  it,  had  five  weakling  churches 
and  seventeen  prosperous  saloons,  the  latter  chiefly 
supported  by  the  woodsmen.  On  either  side  of  a  long 
broad  business  street  was  a  row  of  two-story  buildings, 
some  of  brick  and  some  wooden,  varying  from  the 
shabby  to  the  substantial,  and  intermitting  with 
vacant  lots.  Buildings  once  stood  on  certain  of  these 
vacant  lots,  but  they  had  burned  and  their  sites  were 
marked  by  cellar  holes  filled  with  bricks,  rusty  iron,  and 
like  rubbish.  On  the  other  lots  were  rocks  and  piles  of 
cordwood,  wagons,  boards  and  boxes,  and  whatever 
else  it  came  handy  to  leave  there.  Unoccupied  houses 
were  numerous,  and  there  was  something  of  melancholy 
in  the  aspect  of  the  town,  though  It  still  keeps  up  a 


242      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

brave  show  of  optimism.  It  stands  on  ground  that  a 
few  years  ago  was  forest,  yet,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases, 
it  is  not  graced  by  a  single  tree  that  is  at  all  sizable. 
Cows  wandered  out  to  pasturage  in  the  morning,  and 
back  to  the  home  barns  in  the  evening.  They  went  and 
came  loiteringly  at  their  own  free  will,  stopping  to 
nibble  by  roadsides  and  in  open  lots,  and  rambling 
wherever  fields  were  not  fenced  against  them.  Some, 
if  not  all  the  creatures,  were  loose  at  night,  as  I  learned 
by  having  my  sleep  disturbed  by  a  cow  and  a  dog  that 
ran  afoul  of  each  other  and  made  a  great  uproar  of 
bellowing  and  barking. 

If  one  leaves  the  town  he  can  wander  for  miles  and 
miles  along  wild  river  banks  and  irregular  lake  shores 
and  not  see  a  sign  of  man's  habitation;  or  if  there  is  an 
occasional  dwelling  it  is  likely  to  be  some  rude  hut,  the 
temporary  abode  of  hunter  or  fisherman,  or  is  some 
small  farmhouse  where  a  husbandman  has  started  to 
hew  a  home  out  of  the  wilderness.  The  season  was  far 
advanced  here  in  the  north,  the  trees  were  nearly  bare 
of  leafage,  and  though  the  turf  in  the  pastures  was  still 
green,  the  taller  grasses  and  weeds  were  browned  by  the 
touch  of  the  frost,  and  rustled  dry  in  the  wind.  Scarce 
a  blossom  was  left  among  the  wildflowers  to  brighten 
the  landscape,  and  whenever  I  got  off  the  beaten  ways 
I  gathered  numerous  horned  and  sticky  seeds  on  my 
clothing. 

A  cruise  on  Vermilion  Lake  affords  the  best  means 
of  seeing  the  region.    The  lake  is  marvellously  narrow 


At  the  e?id  of  the  day 


The  Land  of  Iron  243 

and  tortuous,  full  of  unexpected  twists  and  turns,  and 
contains  three  hundred  and  fifty-five  islands  that  vary 
from  a  few  square  yards  to  several  thousand  acres  in 
extent,  and  it  has  no  less  than  eight  hundred  miles  of 
shore  line,  though  its  extreme  length  as  the  bird  flies  is 
only  thirty-five  miles.  The  bordering  woodland  has 
been  devastated  by  the  lumbermen  and  fires,  but  on 
the  islands  there  is  still  a  good  deal  of  the  original  forest 
where  the  dark  masses  of  the  tamarack,  pine,  and  spruce 
are  predominant.  Few  settlers  have  invaded  the 
shores,  and  the  quiet  is  seldom  disturbed  except  by  the 
winds,  or  the  crack  of  a  branch  broken  by  passing  game, 
or  by  the  call  of  a  bird  to  its  mate.  As  you  cruise  along 
you  never  have  any  large  body  of  water  in  sight,  and  to 
continue  much  farther  seems  impossible,  and  then  you 
slip  around  a  point  and  through  a  narrow  passage,  and 
go  on. 

One  evening  when  I  was  in  a  Tower  store  a  man  who 
was  loitering  there  remarked  on  the  drought  that  was 
prevailing  in  the  region.  "I  never  seen  such  a  year  as 
we  been  havin',''  said  he.  "There  was  very  little  snow 
in  the  winter,  and  we  had  summer  weather  in  March. 
Why!  the  thermometer  went  up  to  eighty  in  the  shade, 
right  here  in  this  cold  country.  They  claim  the  comet 
that  carne  so  near  the  earth  about  that  time  upset  the 
weather,  but  I  don't  know.  Anyway  it's  been  tremen- 
dous dry  all  the  year.  We  haven't  had  enough  rain  to 
hardly  moisten  the  ground.  Generally  we  have  a  good 
flood  in  the  spring.     It  comes  after  considerable  of  the 


244     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

snow  has  melted  off,  but  there's  a  lot  left  in  the  ravines 
to  go  quick  with  a  rain  and  make  a  good  head  of  water 
on  the  little  streams.  That  gives  a  chance  to  float  the 
logs  out,  but  this  year  we  didn't  get  a  flood,  and  a  great 
many  logs  are  stranded  up  in  the  woods. 

"I  own  a  meadow— oh,  a  matter  of  eighteen  acres, 
— and  I  usually  get  twenty-five  to  thirty  tons  of  hay 
off  it.  This  year  I  thought  I  did  well  to  harvest  seven 
or  eight.  We  didn't  get  a  half  crop  even  on  the  wettest 
flats.  When  I  planted  my  potatoes,  there  was  so  little 
moisture  in  the  ground  and  the  weather  was  so  hot 
most  of  'em  were  simply  roasted,  but  those  that  come 
up  produced  fine.  We  can't  raise  apples  here — our 
winters  are  too  severe,  and  all  our  meat  and  flour  and 
the  like  of  that  comes  from  the  outside.  It  takes  work 
to  make  a  farm  in  this  country.  You  can't  do  as  they 
do  on  the  prairies — just  put  in  your  plough  and  break 
up  the  ground.  Here  you  have  to  clear  off  the  trees 
and  brush  and  stumps,  and  the  job  goes  slow  for  a  man 
with  only  two  hands,  you  know.  Often  the  land  is  so 
tormented  hilly  and  stony  that  ploughing  is  impossible. 
They  haven't  been  farming  around  here  more'n  four  or 
five  years,  and  it's  mostly  done  on  a  small  scale  as  yet. 

"This  country  has  been  living  off  the  timber  so  far, 
and  our  farmers  mostly  depend  on  winter  work  in  the 
woods  to  keep  'em  going,  and  there's  a  whole  lot  of 
farmer  boys  from  the  southern  and  western  parts  of  the 
state  who  hike  up  here  to  get  employment  in  the  forest 
camps  for  the  winter.     But  the  woodsmen  are  mostly 


The  Land  of  Iron  245 

a  roaming  class  of  labor,  here  one  while  and  way  off 
somewhere  else  a  little  later.  Take  it  along  in  summer 
when  men  are  wanted  out  in  the  Western  harvest  fields 
they  flock  there.  Nine-tenths  of  'em,  the  minute  they 
strike  town  after  they  get  paid  off,  start  in  to  spend  all 
their  money  for  booze.  I've  seen  lots  of  'em  right  here 
who've  come  out  of  the  woods  with  from  one  hundred 
to  two  hundred  dollars,  and  it  wouldn't  last  'em  three 
days.  Seems  to  me  I'd  buy  some  clothes  to  keep  me 
warm  anyway.  But  no,  the  fellow  with  money  goes 
from  saloon  to  saloon,  and  of  course  he  treats  the  crowd. 
There's  plenty  of  others  who're  broke  that  follow  right 
around.  By  and  by  he's  too  drunk  to  travel  farther, 
and  he  lies  down  in  the  back  part  of  a  saloon  and  goes 
to  sleep.  When  he  wakes  up  he  finds  his  pockets  are 
empty.  The  money  he  worked  so  long  and  hard  for  is 
gone.  It  never  does  him  any  good,  and  yet  he's  always 
kickin'  about  his  wages. 

"After  his  spree  is  over  and  he's  penniless,  the  saloon- 
keeper perhaps  makes  him  a  small  loan,  and  the  fellow 
beats  his  way  to  some  town  like  Duluth  where  there 
are  employment  agencies.  He  signs  up  to  go  to  work 
at  a  place  where  help  is  needed  and  is  furnished  with  a 
railroad  ticket  to  his  new  destination,  the  cost  of  which 
is  to  be  later  deducted  from  his  earnings.  Agencies 
don't  care  to  hire  a  man  who  has  only  the  clothes  he 
wears.  They  insist  that  he  shall  have  a  'turkey' — that 
is  some  baggage,  for  a  man  without  anything  except 
what  he  wears  is  apt  to  be  too  useless  and  slippery. 


246     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Often  a  fellow  will  get  around  the  baggage  requirement 
by  going  to  some  back  alley  and  picking  up  old  shoes 
and  rags  which  he  makes  into  a  pack.  It  used  to  be  a 
trick  of  the  men  sent  out  by  the  agencies  to  get  off  the 
train  before  they  reached  the  place  where  their  job  was; 
or  if  they  went  to  the  proper  place  they'd  work  a  day  or 
two,  and  then  say  the  job  wasn't  quite  what  they  ex- 
pected and  then  they'd  quit  and  go  to  work  somewhere 
else..  Sometimes  the  agent  may  have  made  the  work 
look  a  little  more  inducing  than  it  really  was,  but  mostly 
the  men  were  faking.  They  got  so  they'd  do  that  all 
the  time,  and  the  employer  would  lose  his  advances  for 
fare  and  agent's  fee  and  couldn't  help  himself.  Now, 
however,  a  new  law  fixes  that,  and  the  man  who  skips 
off  is  liable  to  be  arrested." 

In  one  of  my  rambles  I  went  down  to  the  lakeside 
and  walked  through  the  widespread  area  of  lumber 
piles,  platforms,  and  lines  of  railroad  track  around  the 
sawmills.  Farther  on  was  a  wooded  point  jutting  out 
into  the  lake,  and  a  path  that  led  into  the  thin  forest 
growth  enticed  me  to  continue  in  that  direction.  I  had 
only  gone  a  short  distance  when  I  came  to  a  small  board 
and  tar-paper  shanty.  It  was  a  mere  one-room  shed 
occupied  by  a  Frenchman  who  had  married  a  squaw. 
The  latter  was  at  home  and  busy  about  her  work.  She 
appeared  modest  and  gentle,  and  her  regular  features 
were  rather  attractive.  Another  interesting  member 
of  the  family  was  a  baby  swaddled  up  in  blankets  and 
fastened  to  a  board  that  could  be  set  up,  hung  up, 


The  Land  of  Iron  247 

carried  on  the  back  or  in  the  arms,  or  could  be  laid  down 
wherever  handy.  Behind  the  cabin  was  a  plot  scarcely- 
larger  than  the  cabin  itself,  where  a  few  vegetables 
were  raised. 

During  the  summer  there  had  been  a  tepee  and  a 
wigwam  on  the  point,  and  the  wigwam's  dome-shaped 
framework  was  still  standing.  It  was  of  slender  birch 
poles,  half  of  which  were  set  in  the  ground  about  two 
feet  apart  and  bent  over  to  meet  at  the  top,  and  the  rest 
were  horizontal  ones  the  same  distance  apart  tied  to  the 
others  with  narrow  strips  of  cedar  bark.  Near  by  were 
several  rude  little  outdoor  benches  and  tables  that  had 
been  made  of  boards  from  the  sawmill. 

When  I  inquired  where  I  could  find  Indians  actually 
living  in  such  aboriginal  dwellings  as  had  been  on  this 
point,  I  was  told  that  I  could  get  the  information  at  an 
Indian  mission  a  few  miles  away  across  an  arm  of  the 
lake.  So  I  hired  a  boat  and  rowed  to  the  mission. 
There  I  was  rejoiced  to  learn  that  such  a  settlement  as 
I  wished  to  see  existed  within  easy  walking  distance. 
Two  Indian  boys  were  detailed  to  act  as  my  guides, 
and  we  crossed  a  field,  crawled  through  a  barbed  wire 
fence,  and  entered  the  woods,  following  a  narrow  trail 
that  showed  signs  of  being  much  travelled.  The  border- 
ing trees  had  been  cut  away  enough  not  to  be  trouble- 
some, but  there  were  numerous  roots  and  stones  that 
made  the  path  far  from  comfortably  smooth.  Moreover 
it  passed  over  a  good  deal  of  boggy  lowland  where  poles 
and  sticks  and  logs  had  been  laid  to  keep  the  wayfarer 


248      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

out  of  the  mud,  though  these  afforded  a  rather  unstable 
footing.  Fallen  leaves  strewed  the  path,  and  made  even 
its  best  portions  slippery,  and  I  could  not  get  a  grip 
with  my  feet  to  move  easily  and  rapidly.  I  marvelled 
at  the  progress  of  my  guides.  The  little  fellows  seemed 
to  be  making  no  eifort,  but  they  swung  along  with  a 
soft-paced  swiftness  that  constantly  threatened  to 
carry  them  out  of  sight.  I  had  to  scramble  forward  at 
my  best  pace. 

It  was  quite  attractive  there  on  that  winding  path, 
going  up  and  down  the  little  hills.  Much  of  the  time 
we  were  in  birch  woods  where  the  sunlight  fell  on  the 
white  trunks,  and  on  the  golden  leaves  still  clinging  to 
the  twigs,  and  on  the  many-tinted  forest  carpet. 

By  and  by  we  came  out  of  the  woods  to  a  brushy 
slope  bordering  the  lake,  and  here  were  the  scattered 
habitations  of  the  Indians,  some  of  which  were  little 
one-room  log  cabins,  some  huts  of  cedar  bark,  and 
others  wigwams  of  birch  bark.  Our  first  greeting  was 
from  the  village  dogs.  They  were  inclined  to  bark  and 
growl  and  snap  at  us.  Evidently  my  guides  had  ex- 
pected this,  for  as  we  drew  near  to  the  hamlet  they  had 
picked  up  some  stout  cudgels,  and  now  they  thwacked 
every  dog  that  came  within  reach  so  vigorously  that  the 
surly  creatures  retreated  with  bristling  fur  to  a  safe 
distance. 

Adjacent  to  each  hut  was  a  tripod  of  poles  from  which 
a  chain  or  piece  of  wire  dangled  down  and  suspended  a 
kettle  or  pail  over  a  fire  built  below.    The  huts  them- 


The  Land  of  Iron  249 

selves  were  mostly  warmed  with  stoves,  and  a  stovepipe 
projected  through  the  roof.  One  wigwam,  however, 
had  the  fire  in  the  middle  on  the  floor,  and  a  hole  above 
at  the  top  of  the  birch  bark  dome  offered  inducements 
for  the  smoke  to  escape  skyward.  But  doubtless 
atmospheric  conditions  were  often  such  that  the  smoke 
filled  the  hut.  The  bark  covering  was  in  strips  two  feet 
or  more  wide  and  five  or  six  feet  long,  with  a  slender 
stick  fastened  at  either  end  to  keep  the  bark  from  split- 
ting and  curling.  The  bark  is  only  brittle  in  cold 
weather,  and  when  not  in  use  the  strips  could  be  rolled 
up  fairly  compact.  Basswood  bark  was  used  to  sew  on 
the  end  sticks,  and  the  same  material  served  for  stitch- 
ing strips  together.  So  loosely  did  the  strips  lie  on  the 
wigwam  framework  that  wind  and  storms  could  not 
have  been  excluded  very  effectively.  Instead  of  birch 
bark  some  of  the  Indians  of  the  region  covered  the  wig- 
wam frames  with  deerhides,  which  they  fastened  on 
with  the  hair  to  the  weather. 

An  Indian  with  a  wigwam  habitation  is  not  very 
closely  tied  to  a  particular  location  and  he  moves  fre- 
quently. When  he  does  so  he  leaves  the  old  framework 
behind.  I  was  informed  that  often  when  an  Indian 
kills  large  game  such  as  a  deer  or  a  moose  he  will  hang 
it  up,  return  and  load  his  wigwam  and  family  in  his 
canoe  and  go  where  the  game  is  to  set  up  housekeeping 
and  stay  at  least  as  long  as  the  meat  lasts. 

In  the  stoveless  wigwam  that  I  saw,  there  was  a  sewing 
machine  tilted  unsteadily  sidewise  on  the  uneven  ground 


250     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

back  of  the  fire.  Blankets  and  other  household  belong- 
ings bestrewed  the  interior  in  confused  masses  that 
were  not  very  suggestive  of  cleanliness.  Several 
children  were  sitting  or  lying  on  the  blankets,  and  a 
ponderously  fat  old  squaw  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees 
was  squatted  at  the  entrance  smoking  a  short  pipe. 
Many  frequently-used  articles  were  hung  up  outside  or 
were  scattered  about  near  by,  and  for  some  distance  from 
the  hut  the  ground  was  strewn  with  cast-off  clothing, 
shoes,  worn-out  utensils,  and  pieces  of  fur  and  bunches 
of  feathers  that  attested  carelessness  and  a  good  deal 
of  unthrifty  waste.  Certainly  there  was  no  regard  for 
appearances  or  for  the  wholesomeness  of  the  surround- 
ings. The  Indians'  attempts  at  agriculture  had  been 
limited  to  a  few  tiny  patches  scratched  over  and  planted 
to  potatoes. 

A  path  led  from  each  hut  to  the  shore,  where  some 
light,  shapely  birch  bark  canoes  were  drawn  up.  A 
man  can  make  a  canoe  in  five  days,  but  it  is  necessary 
now  to  go  a  long  way  back  in  the  woods  to  find  a  good 
straight  tree  of  sufficient  size.  Sometimes  a  single 
piece  of  bark  extends  the  entire  length  of  the  canoe, 
but  more  likely  two  or  three  are  used,  and  at  the  broader 
part  an  extra  strip  is  added  on  either  side.  The  seams 
are  sewed  with  balsam  roots  and  made  water-tight  with 
a  black  daubing  of  spruce  gum  mixed  with  cedar  ashes. 

In  one  place,  among  the  ragged  bushes  on  the  slope, 
was  a  group  of  graves,  each  with  a  covering  of  some 
sort,  or  with  little  palings  around  it.    A  slender  pole  with 


The  Land  of  Iron  251 

a  white  flag  at  the  top  was  set  up  on  the  more  recent 
graves.  The  latest  death  had  been  that  of  an  old  woman 
who  was  nearly  blind.  She  went  to  the  woods  to  get 
bark  to  kindle  her  fire,  and  became  bewildered  and 
wandered  off"  in  the  wrong  direction.  After  a  two  days' 
search  the  Indians  found  her  dead  body. 

The  men  whom  I  saw  in  the  hamlet  seemed  to  have 
little  to  do  but  loaf.  Nor  were  the  women  much  bur- 
dened with  work  either — why  should  they  be  with  so 
small  an  amount  of  furniture,  dishes,  or  anything  else 
to  be  cared  for.^*  One  man  showed  me  a  partridge  he 
had  shot,  and  then  he  laid  it  on  the  ground.  A  moment 
later  he  hastily  snatched  it  up  just  in  time  to  rescue  it 
from  a  dog  that  was  about  to  grab  it.  He  hung  the 
bird  out  of  the  dog's  reach  on  a  framework  at  the  side 
of  his  cabin  that  seemed  to  be  planned  for  a  shed. 

When  I  returned  to  Tower  I  met  an  old  man  at  the 
boat  landing  and  made  some  inquiry  about  the  fishing; 
but  I  had  to  repeat  the  question  twice  in  an  increasingly 
loud  tone  of  voice  before  I  got  an  answer.  "I'm  kind 
of  hard  of  hearing,"  said  he.  "I  don't  always  notice 
when  people  speak  to  me,  and  it's  a  terrible  setback,  for 
I  miss  a  lot  of  information  I'd  get  otherwise.  I  hear 
folks  talking,  but  I  don't  know  what  they're  saying. 
Oh,  yes,  there's  good  fishing  in  Vermilion  Lake.  May 
is  the  best  time.  It's  then  we  ketch  the  wall-eyed  pike. 
They're  a  wonderful  good  fish — they  certainly  are 
first-class,  and  they're  large,  too.  I've  heard  people 
say  they'd  seen  'em  that  would  weigh  ten  or  twelve 


252      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

pounds,  but  I  never  caught  one  that  would  weigh  over 
three  or  four.  I  have  the  most  fun  fishing  when  we  go 
blueberrying  in  August,  though  that's  counted  about 
the  poorest  month  in  the  year  for  it. 

"Blueberries!  oh,  my!  I've  seen 'em  shipped  almost 
by  the  carload  from  here.  The  Indians  bring  'em  in 
from  the  marshes  around  the  lake.  Some  years,  too, 
we  have  quite  a  crop  of  raspberries,  but  there  were  none 
this  year  worth  lookin'  at.  In  blueberrying  time  our 
family  goes  twelve  miles  by  boat  up  to  Trout  Lake  and 
camp.  One  of  my  sons  stays  here  to  take  care  of  the 
farm.  He's  a  pretty  good  houseboy,  and  he  can  cook 
and  make  butter,  besides  milking  the  cows.  Every 
few  days  he  comes  up  to  the  camp  in  a  gasoline  boat 
with  supplies.  We  campers  work  when  we  like  and 
rest  when  we  like.  That's  the  way  to  take  an  outing. 
We  bring  sugar  and  cans,  and  we  can  the  berries  right 
up  in  good  shape  at  the  camp." 

I  was  at  Tower  on  Sunday.  It  seemed  as  if  most  of 
the  men  deserted  the  town  that  day  to  ramble  in  the 
woods  or  make  excursions  on  the  lake,  and  after  they 
were  gone  footsteps  were  very  Infrequent  on  the  board 
walks.  Probably  fifty  men  went  out  that  day  from 
Tower  to  hunt  ducks  and  partridges,  but  it  is  doubtful 
if  they  brought  back  ten  birds  all  told.  When  one  of 
these  men,  gun  in  hand,  and  a  pack  on  his  back  held  in 
place  by  shoulder  straps,  passed  the  hotel,  a  young 
fellow  sitting  near  me  in  the  office  remarked:  "He's 
got  his  pack  full  of  whiskey  and  hardtack,  and  I  suppose 


The  Land  of  Iron  '  253 

he'll  enjoy  himself  whether  he  has  any  luck  or  not. 
Five  or  six  years  ago  you  could  go  out  and  in  a  fore- 
noon get  all  the  partridges  you  could  carry.  Now  you 
can  stay  all  day  and  not  get  enough  for  a  mess  hardly. 
People  here  hunt  'em  the  year  around.  Even  If  they 
see  a  partridge  on  her  nest  they'll  shoot  the  head  off 
from  her;  and  the  hunters  use  partridges  for  bait  in 
their  traps.  We  need  about  fifteen  game  wardens  to 
the  square  mile  to  keep  things  straight.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  these  fellows  who  work  over  here  at 
the  mines?  They  pay  no  attention  to  the  game  laws. 
Year  in  and  year  out  they  supply  themselves  with 
venison  and  don't  buy  beef.  They'll  kill  deer  In  mid- 
summer when  the  creatures  are  nothing  but  skin  and 
bones.  The  meat  on  the  same  deer  In  autumn  would 
amount  to  three  or  four  times  as  much. 

"Another  nuisance  Is  the  worthless  dogs  that  amuse 
themselves  by  deer-chasing.  You  kill  a  deer  after  a 
dog  has  been  chasing  it  a  long  time,  and  the  meat  is  no 
good.  The  blood  gets  heated  and  turns  the  flesh  black. 
Besides,  usually  as  soon  as  a  dog  goes  to  chasing  a  deer, 
a  hunter  can  never  get  in  sight  of  the  game.  To  let  a 
dog  chase  a  deer  all  over  the  woods  Is  not  right,  and  if 
I  ketch  one  doing  it,  he's  a  dead  dog,  I  don't  care  whose 
he  is.  I  had  a  little  experience  in  another  part  of  the 
state  with  a  fellow  who  lived  on  the  edge  of  a  town  in  a 
cabin  where  he  kept  a  few  small  articles  to  sell.  He  had 
a  dog  that  he  always  spoke  of  as  very  valuable,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  given  four  cents  for  a  carload  of  such 


254      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

dogs.  It  was  a  dog  that  had  chased  most  all  the  deer 
out  of  that  country.  You'd  hear  the  sound  of  the 
creature  howling  through  the  woods  night  and  day  for 
a  week  at  a  time.  If  the  game  warden  went  to  his  owner 
and  complained,  the  fellow  would  just  hunch  up  his 
shoulders  a  little  and  say  he  didn't  propose  to  have  any 
game  warden  dictatin'  to  him  about  his  dog. 

"  'But  somebody'll  shoot  him,'  says  the  warden. 

"  'Then  I'll  shoot  the  feller,'  says  the  man. 

"  'You  just  do  that,'  says  the  warden,  'and  if  this 
is  a  civilized  country,  as  I  think  it  is,  you'll  be  strung 
up  before  you're  a  day  older.' 

"Well,  the  feller  was  strong  with  his  mouth,  and  to 
hear  him  talkin'  a  good  many  would  be  scared  to  death. 
But  his  talk  made  no  difference  to  me.  I  knew  he  was 
a  wind-jammer,  and  that  he  was  much  more  likely  to 
tell  what  he'd  do  to  you  if  you  were  two  or  three  miles 
away  than  right  to  your  face.  One  day  when  I  was  out 
with  my  gun  I  heard  his  dog  coming  in  my  direction, 
and  the  dog  was  chasing  a  deer,  for  pretty  soon  the  deer 
ran  past.  I  let  the  deer  go,  but  as  soon  as  the  dog  got 
into  the  little  open  where  I  was  I  shot  him  in  the  head. 
He  gave  one  leap  and  dropped  dead  in  his  tracks.  I 
went  to  the  man's  cabin,  and  I  says:  'I  found  your  dog 
out  in  the  woods  chasing  a  deer,  and  I  shot  him.  You'll 
find  him  dead  down  the  road.  Now,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it.?' 

"  'Well,'  he  says,  'you  done  a  good  job.  That  dog 
was  never  at  home  anyway.' 


The  partridge 


The  Land  of  Iron  255 

"Then  I  bought  a  plug  of  tobacco  and  went  along. 
He  never  bothered  me,  yet  if  I'd  gone  sneaking  around 
he  might  have  taken  a  shot  at  me  on  the  sly — not  to 
kill  but  to  scare  me. 

"That  was  a  great  region  for  ducks.  One  day  three 
of  us  killed  between  sixty  and  seventy  there  on  Ripple 
River  up  by  Mud  Lake,  and  we  only  had  an  old  tub  of 
a  boat.  You  couldn't  drive  'em  away.  You'd  fire,  and 
they'd  rise,  but  would  only  go  a  little  distance  when 
they'd  drop  right  back. 

"We  have  a  few  moose  around  the  lake  here,  and 
farther  north,  back  where  no  roads  have  been  opened 
up,  they  tell  me  moose  are  numerous.  A  game  warden 
who's  just  returned  from  a  fortnight's  trip  in  that 
direction  says  he  saw  fifty  odd.  There's  a  boy  you 
can't  scare  with  a  dog.  I've  run  right  onto  one  when  I 
was  hunting  birds.  Antlers  and  all  he  looked  as  big  as 
a  house  to  me,  and  I  wasn't  long  in  backing  away.  But 
a  moose  is  as  easy  to  shoot  as  a  cow  if  you  manage  right. 

"I  was  with  a  game  warden  once  who  went  to  look  up 
some  Indians  of  the  old  roaming  sort  who  won't  stay 
on  a  reservation  and  who'd  been  killing  moose  out  of 
season.  We  found  all  kinds  of  moose  meat  right  in  their 
cabin,  and  the  warden  told  'em  he  placed  'em  under 
arrest.  I  doubted  if  they'd  come  along,  for  he  was  only 
a  little  feller,  while  there  were  seven  of  them  and  they 
were  a  tough  lookin'  bunch;  but  they  just  grunted  and 
obeyed  orders.  They  got  thirty  or  forty  days  in  jail 
apiece,  and  they  swore  they'd  kill  that  warden.    They'll 


256      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

do  it,  too,  if  they  ever  have  the  right  sort  of  chance. 
When  they  get  a  dislike  for  a  man  they're  like  bulldogs 
— you  can't  do  anything  with  'em.  But  they're  cow- 
ardly and  won't  touch  him  unless  they  are  sure  they 
have  the  advantage. 

"I  and  another  feller  were  trapping  that  winter  near 
where  those  seven  Indians  had  their  cabin.  Not  long 
before  the  warden  arrested  'em  they  stole  a  wolf  we'd 
poisoned.  We  followed  the  trail  of  the  animal  from 
where  it  took  the  poisoned  meat  to  where  it  died. 
They'd  gone  off  with  it  and  wagged  brush  behind  'em 
to  cover  up  their  tracks.  A  greenhorn  couldn't  have 
followed  such  a  trail,  but  we  did.  The  snow  was  deep, 
and  as  they  wore  only  moccasins,  they  sank  into  it  so  it 
wasn't  easy  to  wipe  out  all  their  footprints.  We  wore 
skees,  and  it  didn't  take  us  long  to  get  to  their  cabin. 
We  went  right  in  and  told  'em  they'd  got  our  wolf  and 
that  we  wanted  it.  They  had  it  behind  the  stove  thaw- 
ing out,  and  they  brought  it  to  us  without  any 
argument. 

"Skees  are  used  a  good  bit  up  here,  but  an  Indian 
or  a  hunter  usually  prefers  snowshoes.  If  the  skees  are 
made  of  soft  wood  the  snow  sticks  to  'em  on  a  melting 
day.  Once  when  there  was  a  crust  I  made  twenty-one 
miles  in  three  hours  on  skees  with  the  thermometer 
twenty  degrees  below  zero. 

"One  while  I  worked  in  a  little  post  office  and  store 
on  a  reservation  west  of  here.  Some  of  the  old  bucks 
there  were  pretty  wild  and  had  hair  as  long  as  my  arm. 


The  Land  of  Iron  257 

The  agent  didn't  believe  there  was  any  good  in  the 
Indians,  and  he  was  always  suspicious  and  never  would 
trust  'em.  The  natural  consequence  was  that  they  felt 
much  the  same  about  him,  but  I  had  no  trouble 
with  them.  They  wouldn't  jump  a  bill.  If  they  wanted 
something  and  said  they'd  pay  at  a  certain  time  they'd 
come  with  the  money  as  agreed.  I  think  it's  their 
nature  to  be  honest;  but  the  half-breeds  are  pretty 
wise,  and  they  teach  the  others  to  be  crooked,  so  if  you 
buy  furs  of  them  you've  got  to  look  out.  The  hides 
might  be  moth-eaten,  or  not  properly  stretched  or 
something  else  the  matter  that  you  wouldn't  notice. 
They  know  it,  but  they'll  take  advantage  of  you  that 
way. 

"Another  thing — if  you  was  a  stranger  and  was  to 
meet  'em  in  the  woods  and  ask  questions,  you  couldn't 
depend  at  all  on  their  answers.  They  don't  know 
whether  you're  trying  to  arrest  them  or  what  you're  at, 
and  they'll  reply  at  random  and  may  say  'no'  when 
they  ought  to  say  'yes. '  Often  you'd  think  they  didn't 
understand  your  language.  They  can  talk,  but  they 
won't.  They'll  just  grunt,  and  that'll  be  about  all 
you'll  get  out  of  'em;  and  yet  if  you  give  those  same 
Indians  a  little  booze  they'll  talk  all  day. 

"They're  pretty  decent  after  you  get  to  know  them. 
I  certainly  have  got  some  good  pointers  from  them 
about  hunting.  They're  always  on  the  go,  and  they 
know  the  country.  So  they  understand  the  habits  of 
the  animals  and  can  beat  a  white  man  tracking  and 


258      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

getting  where  the  game  is;  but  they're  not  good  shots. 
Perhaps  that's  because  they  generally  have  some  cheap 
old  gun  that's  no  good,  and  which  they  can't  shoot  to 
hit  a  barn  except  at  short  range.  I  had  a  gun  once  that 
was  so  worn  and  rusty  I  was  going  to  throw  it  away, 
but  I  showed  it  to  an  Indian,  and  he  said,  'Me  give 
otter  skin  for  it.'  We  made  the  exchange  and  I  sold 
the  skin  for  seventeen  dollars. 

"My  grandfather  was  a  doctor  in  what  was  then  a 
recently  settled  part  of  the  state.  One  winter  day  an 
Indian  came  to  his  house  and  wanted  him  to  go  seventy 
miles  up  in  the  woods  to  do  what  he  could  for  another 
Indian  who  had  broken  his  leg.  My  grandfather  started 
at  once.  He  went  with  a  tote  team  as  far  as  he  could, 
and  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  on  snowshoes.  He  had 
no  anaesthetic,  and  when  he  got  to  the  man  with  the 
broken  leg  he  said,  'Now,  no  fuss,  no  hollering,  and  I'll 
give  you  a  big  drink  of  whiskey  when  I  get  through, 
and  in  order  to  make  you  brave  I'll  give  you  two  drinks 
before  I  begin.' 

"That  was  sufficient  inducement.  The  feller  stood 
the  ordeal  of  having  his  leg  set  without  even  grunting, 
and  he  was  down  in  town  before  spring. 

"I  can  take  a  quart  of  whiskey  and  ten  pounds  of 
salt  pork  and  go  where  the  Indians  live  and  get  more 
moccasins,  bead  work,  and  baskets  than  ten  dollars 
would  buy  here.  I  got  a  birch-bark  canoe  worth 
twenty-five  dollars  from  two  squaws  for  a  quart  of 
whiskey  one  time.    But  you  need  to  be  careful  how  you 


The  Land  of  Iron  259 

take  advantage  of  'em.  If  you  want  to  buy  a  canoe, 
and  the  owner  says  'Five  dollars,'  you  may  say,  'Two 
and  a  half.' 

"  'All  right,'  he  says,  and  you  pay  the  money  and  go 
off  with  your  canoe.  But  he  feels  you  haven't  given 
him  a  fair  price,  and  he'll  steal  the  canoe  from  you  later 
and  fix  it  so  you'll  never  know  it  again.  Your  only 
chance  to  save  it  is  to  ketch  him  in  the  act.  I  never 
seen  any  Indian  yet  that  wouldn't  steal.  They  won't 
steal  from  their  best  friend,  but  they  will  from  anyone 
else,  and  they  only  tell  the  truth  when  it's  for  their 
benefit  to  do  so.  Work  isn't  much  to  their  liking,  and 
if  you  have  a  number  of  'em  at  the  same  job  they're  no 
good  unless  you  can  keep  'em  apart.  But  if  you  string 
'em  along  they'll  all  get  together  in  a  few  minutes  to 
have  a  powwow.  Or  perhaps  they're  workin'  away  and 
they  see  a  porcupine — they'll  get  clubs  and  chase  the 
darn  thing  and  kill  it.  Then  they'll  all  quit  work  and 
go  to  their  wigwams  to  have  a  dance  and  a  feast. 

"The  expense  of  living  the  way  they  do  is  mighty 
small,  and  most  of  'em  prefer  to  hunt,  fish,  and  trap,  and 
stay  in  the  woods  rather  than  to  work  for  wages.  If  a 
man  gets  a  mink  once  a  week  he'll  sell  the  hide  for 
enough  to  keep  his  family.  They  ain't  particular  what 
they  eat.  When  they  find  a  dead  animal  that  ain't 
spoiled,  it  don't  matter  what  it  is,  they'll  use  it  for 
food.  I've  known  'em  to  dig  up  and  eat  a  cow  that  was 
killed  by  the  railroad  and  had  been  buried.  Once  I 
was  workin'  in  a  lumber  camp,  and  a  horse  died  of  dis- 


26o     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

ease.  We  dragged  it  out  in  the  woods,  and  a  bobcat 
had  been  eating  at  it  a  week  when  some  squaws  came 
with  an  axe  and  cut  it  up  and  carried  it  off.  I  seen  that 
myself. 

"They  like  sweet  things.  Candy — gee!  it'd  sur- 
prise you  how  much  they  can  stow  away;  and  they'll 
eat  all  the  fruit  you  can  pile  in  front  of  'em.  They're 
great  for  chewing  gum.  The  kind  they  can  get  the 
most  of  for  a  nickel  suits  'em  best.  A  nickel's  worth  is 
supposed  to  make  five  chews,  but  it  makes  just  one  for 
an  Indian.  A  squaw  will  put  enough  in  her  mouth  to 
gag  a  horse — she'll  chew  a  lump  as  big  as  my  fist.  The 
older  squaws  are  crazy  after  chewing-tobacco,  and 
they're  so  fond  of  smoking  they'll  pick  cigar  butts  up 
off  the  street  and  smoke  'em. 

"It  used  to  be  the  Indian  custom  to  put  their  dead 
up  in  trees  on  a  platform  among  the  branches,  but 
they've  been  burying  in  the  ground  for  a  long  time  now. 
They  wrap  the  bodies  up  in  skins  and  only  dig  down 
deep  enough  so  they  can  cover  'em  up  good.  I've  dug 
up  some  of  the  old  graves.  There's  tomahawks  and 
knives  and  arrow-heads  in  'em — just  the  fighting  outfit. 
The  things  are  all  of  stone,  and  it's  a  mystery  to  me 
how  they  ever  made  such  sharp  points  and  edges." 

Tower,  considered  historically  and  in  its  location  on 
Vermilion  Lake  with  the  Indians  and  varied  wild  life 
in  the  adjacent  forest,  is  probably  the  most  interesting 
town  in  the  iron  region;  but  there  are  other  vicinities 
that  as  iron  producers  are  more  important  and  have  a 


The  Land  of  Iron  261 

more  picturesque  individuality.  In  particular  there 
are  the  mines  of  the  Mesabe  Range.  These  are  mostly 
open  pits.  By  some  magic  the  ore  was  deposited  in 
vast  pockets  only  thinly  concealed  with  earth.  When 
the  earth  has  been  stripped  away,  there  is  the  treasure, 
a  reddish  mass,  often  finely  pulverized,  and  seldom 
more  solid  than  a  crumbly  rock.  The  deeper  a  mine 
goes  and  the  more  area  it  covers,  the  more  useless  earth 
and  rock  roundabout  that  have  to  be  removed  in  order 
to  get  at  the  ore  and  make  easy  grades  for  the  ore  cars 
to  run  right  into  the  pits.  This  waste  material  piled 
roundabout  often  has  the  appearance  of  mighty  forti- 
fications, and  the  terraced  pits  themselves  yawn  to 
amazing  depths. 

At  seven  in  the  morning,  at  noon,  and  in  the  early 
evening  blasts  are  set  off  in  a  magnificent  series  of 
detonations  like  heavy  cannonading,  and  when  the 
last  echoes  fade  away  a  great  red  cloud  of  dust  drifts 
up  from  the  chasm  and  slowly  dispels.  Then  presently 
the  giant  steam  shovels  resume  work  loading  the  ore 
trains.  A  single  shovel  takes  up  from  four  to  eight 
tons  at  a  dip  and  will  keep  three  locomotives  and  as 
many  trains  of  dump  cars  busy.  When  the  cars  reach 
the  lake  docks  the  bottoms  are  opened,  and  the  loads 
rush  down  long  chutes  into  the  holds  of  the  vessels, 
or  into  great  storage  buildings  from  which  the  ore  can 
be  poured  into  the  vessels  at  a  dozen  or  more  hatches 
simultaneously. 

On  the  day  I  left  the  Mesabe  Range  a  roistering 


262      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

wind  was  blowing  that  fanned  the  fires  in  the  dry 
.  northern  forests  into  fierce  conflagrations.  Several 
towns  were  burned  on  the  Canadian  border,  numerous 
lives  were  lost,  and  a  vast  extent  of  valuable  forest  was 
ruined.  As  I  travelled  southward  the  country  was 
enveloped  in  a  dense  gray  haze  of  smoke,  and  our  train 
ran  through  two  or  three  fires,  but  these  were  mere 
smudges  compared  with  those  that  were  raging  in  the 
heavy  forests  a  few  scores  of  miles  distant.  There  was 
no  fine  forest  left  within  sight  of  the  railroad,  and  for 
tens  of  miles  at  a  stretch  the  half  devastated  woodland 
as  the  lumbermen  had  left  it  showed  the  marks  of 
recent  fires.  These  fires  had  probably  not  been  espe- 
cially dangerous,  nor  was  the  mutilated  woodland  here 
of  much  value,  but  still  the  loss  was  sufficiently  dis- 
maying, and  the  outlook  for  the  future  is  gloomy. 
Conditions  are  such  that  the  region  seems  doomed  to 
fresh  conflagrations  as  long  as  there  is  anything  left 
on  the  wild  lands  that  will  burn. 

Note. — Whoever  visits  the  iron  region  of  Minnesota  is  certain  to 
pause  at  Duluth,  finely  situated  on  a  bay  at  the  end  of  Lake  Supe- 
rior. In  i860  it  contained  only  eighty  white  inhabitants,  and  had 
less  than  four  thousand  in  1885.  It  owes  its  rapid  increase  since  to 
the  fact  of  being  at  the  head  of  navigation  of  the  Great  Lakes  with 
a  rich  agricultural  and  mining  region  lying  beyond.  It  has  a  large 
harbor  entered  by  a  short  canal,  and  travellers  will  be  interested  in 
the  ingenious  aerial  bridge  by  which  teams  and  people  cross  the 
canal.  The  iron  country  lies  about  a  hundred  miles  to  the  north. 
Not  many  years  ago  this  was  a  part  of  a  vast  forest  region  where 
the  lumber  industry  was  at  its  height;   but  many  a  once  lively  and 


The  Land  of  Iron  263 

prosperous  town  that  was  dependent  on  this  industry  is  now  almost 
depopulated.  Sawmills  have  been  abandoned  to  the  elements  and 
scores  of  lumber  camps  are  going  to  rot  and  ruin.  Moreover, 
where  the  industry  still  survives,  much  timber  is  greedily  accepted 
which  a  few  years  ago  would  have  been  passed  by  as  worthless. 

One  should  see  the  open  pits  of  the  Mesabe  Range,  and  visit 
Tower,  the  pioneer  iron  town  on  beautiful  Lake  Vermilion.  At 
Tower  you  are  on  the  wilderness  borders  and  have  an  exceptional 
opportunity  for  getting  into  the  uninhabited  forest  and  exploring 
lonely  waterways.  Here  are  Indians  who  still  live  in  the  aboriginal 
wigwams,  and  get  their  living  largely  by  hunting  and  fishing.  The 
fishing  is  excellent,  and  the  hunting  better  than  in  most  sections  so 
easily  accessible.  Wild  rice,  which  grows  best  in  small  shallow 
lakes,  is  found  in  considerable  quantities  in  the  Lake  Vermilion 
region.  It  is  unequalled  as  an  attraction  for  wild  fowl  and  makes 
the  vicinity  to  an  unusual  degree  the  haunt  of  ducks,  geese,  and  other 
water  birds. 


XIII 

WISCONSIN   WATERSIDES 

FROM  Duluth,  "the  zenith  city  of  the  unsalted 
seas,"  I  made  a  long  journey  to  Green  Bay,  a 
westerly  inreach  of  Lake  Michigan.  On  the  way 
I  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  talking  with  a  resident  of  a 
certain  Wisconsin  city  of  moderate  size  whose  leading 
inhabitants  were  interested  to  an  unusual  degree  in  the 
lumber  industry.  Some  of  them  had  recently  built  a 
pulp  mill,  and  he  called  my  attention  to  the  young 
growths  of  "popple"  we  could  see  from  the  car  window 
and  remarked:  "There's  good  pulp  material  in  those 
trees,  but  it's  not  always  easy  to  get  'em  cut.  You'll 
strike  lots  of  Catholic  lumber-jacks  who  won't  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  cutting  a  popple  tree,  and  they  won't 
cross  a  bridge  or  sleep  in  a  house  that  has  popple  wood 
in  it.  There's  a  tradition  that  the  cross  on  which  Christ 
was  crucified  was  of  popple,  and  they  say  the  wood  is 
cursed  on  that  account.  They  call  it  the  '  devil's  wood, ' 
and  in  proof  of  there  being  something  mysterious  about 
it  tell  you  to  notice  that  the  leaves  never  stand  still 
whether  the  wind  blows  or  not. 

"Down  in  the  town  where  I  live  there  are  probably 
forty  men  who  are  worth  over  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars  apiece,  and  the  money  has  mostly  come  out  of 


/..     'J 


:*»-;.■  '«^- 


The  strazv  stack 


Wisconsin  Watersides  265 

the  woods.  Some  of  it  is  theirs  honestly,  and  some 
isn't.  Nearly  all  the  men  who  have  become  rich  in  this 
country  stole  timber  In  the  forests  for  a  great  many 
years — vast  quantities  of  it.  To  explain  how  they  did 
the  stealing  I  must  tell  you  about  the  land-lookers  or 
timber-cruisers.  I  suppose  we  have  ten  residents  in  our 
town  who  never  have  done  anything  else  but  look  up 
timber  for  the  lumber  companies.  They've  been  in 
the  South,  the  West,  and  the  North,  and  they've  been 
to  Canada,  Mexico,  and  South  America.  They  get 
about  five  dollars  a  day  and  found.  Sometimes  they'll 
be  gone  all  summer.  Generally,  when  they  return  and 
are  paid,  they  go  on  a  drunk.  They're  not  apt  to  be 
thrifty,  and  formerly  it  was  seldom  that  they  would 
marry  before  they  were  fifty.  They  were  in  the  woods 
too  much,  and  besides  women  were  too  scarce.  Twenty 
years  ago  there  were  five  bachelors  here  to  one 
marriageable  woman. 

"A  cruiser  may  go  alone  or  he  may  have  a  com- 
panion. I  knew  of  a  couple  of  fellows  who  were  gone 
more  than  seven  months.  They  poled  up  the  Wis- 
consin River  in  a  canoe  carrying  a  bar'l  of  flour,  a  bar'l 
of  pork,  blankets,  a  gun,  and  a  compass.  When  they 
wanted  fresh  meat  they  killed  a  deer,  and  they  traded 
salt  pork  and  fiour  to  the  Indians  for  fish.  They  had 
climbing  hooks,  and  they'd  put  'em  on  and  go  up  the 
tall  trees  and  look  to  see  where  the  bunches  of  pines 
were.  They'd  locate  the  sections  the  timber  was  on 
and  estimate  how  much  there  was  in  each  forty.    The 


266     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

result  of  the  trip  was  that  they  made  millions  for  the 
people  who  employed  them.  These  employers  would 
buy  the  land  for  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  an  acre  from  the 
government,  but  they  wouldn't  buy  it  all.  I've  known 
people  to  go  in  and  buy  one  forty  and  cut  a  hundred  of 
'em.  But  ordinarily  they'd  buy  about  one-half  and 
trespass  the  other  half.  Often  they  cut  off  the  govern- 
ment land  adjoining  theirs  and  saved  their  own  for 
years  and  realized  on  the  increased  value  of  the  timber. 

"The  land  they  bought,  after  it  had  been  reduced  to 
a  desolation  of  brush  and  stumps,  wasn't  usually  con- 
sidered worth  paying  taxes  on,  and  most  of  it  went  back 
to  the  counties.  Over  in  Michigan  a  seventh  of  the 
entire  state  is  even  now  on  the  delinquent  tax-list.  One 
of  our  townsmen  bought  eighty  thousand  acres  of  such 
land  at  ten  cents  an  acre.  There  was  still  some  timber 
on  it,  and  when  that  had  been  cut  off  he  sold  the  land 
for  farms,  and  it  made  him  a  millionaire.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  there's  been  more  fortunes  made  in  the  lumber 
and  land  business  in  the  last  fifteen  years  than  ever 
before. 

"A  few  of  the  wealthy  men  in  our  town  are  old  woods- 
men— workers  who  went  to  the  lumber  camps  and 
drove  oxen  and  cut  trees  with  their  own  hands;  but 
most,  at  the  start,  were  bright,  keen  college  men  who 
came  here  and  went  into  the  real  estate  business.  If 
they  had  brains  and  ability  they'd  get  in  on  deals  and 
would  speculate  in  land  and  perhaps  marry 'the  daugh- 
ters of  older  men  who'd  already  made  their  fortunes. 


Wisconsin  Watersides  267 

But  I  don't  think  they  enjoy  their  wealth.  I  don't 
think  most  rich  people  do.  They  trip  up  somewhere. 
There's  usually  a  skeleton  in  the  closet.  Wealth  and 
success  often  make  a  man  crabbed  and  cranky,  or  his 
children  don't  turn  out  well,  or  he  has  rough  tastes 
that  don't  lit  the  fine  house  he  builds  and  the  stylish 
life  he  tries  to  adopt.  Most  of  the  rich  men  travel  and 
buy  expensive  things,  but  there's  a  coarse  streak  in  'em 
that  keeps  'em  from  getting  genuine  satisfaction  out  of 
the  refinements  of  life.  Then,  too,  they  are  never  satis- 
fied with  the  wealth  they  already  have,  but  are  in  a 
constant  scramble  after  more,  or  in  a  worry  lest  some 
of  their  accumulations  should  slip  away.  No,  if  you 
knew  all  about  their  affairs,  you  wouldn't  swap  your 
troubles  for  theirs,  even  if  at  the  same  time  you  traded 
your  poverty  for  their  riches. 

"  I  want  you  to  notice  this  place  we're  passing  through 
now.  It's  the  worst  town  in  the  United  States.  See 
that  one  long  row  of  buildings — there's  sixteen  of  'em, 
and  fourteen  are  saloons.  That's  all  there  is  to  the 
town.  It's  just  a  vice  resort  for  the  mine  and  lumber 
laborers  of  the  region. " 

A  number  of  Indian  men,  women  and  children  occu- 
pied seats  near  us.  They  were  dressed  as  well  and  in 
as  up-to-style  a  manner  as  most  whites.  My  com- 
panion said  they  were  Chippewas  of  the  Bad 
River  Reservation.  "There's  six  hundred  of  'em  in 
the  tribe,"  said  he,  "and  they're  the  richest  people  on 
earth.    They're  worth  ten  thousand  dollars  apiece,  and 


268      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

every  individual  is  paid  ten  dollars  a  month  by  the 
government.  That  income  makes  the  squaws  very 
attractive  to  the  white  men,  and  whites  often  marry 
into  the  tribe  on  just  that  account.  The  Indians' 
wealth  is  simply  a  matter  of  luck.  When  the  govern- 
ment put  'em  on  a  reservation  some  land  was  selected 
that  at  the  time  was  no  earthly  good.  There  was  a  lot 
of  timber  on  it,  but  the  trees  were  too  small  to  be  cov- 
eted by  the  lumber  companies.  Now,  however,  that 
timber  has  grown,  and  is  the  finest  big  tract  left  in  the 
state.  The  Indians  have  pretty  good  houses  and  are 
doing  some  farming. 

"That  bargain  with  the  Chippewas  shows  you  it 
isn't  every  land  trade  here  that  turns  out  as  those  con- 
cerned expect.  I'll  give  you  another  instance.  In  the 
southern  part  of  the  state  an  old  Scotch  Presbyterian 
was  running  a  hotel,  and  he  wanted  to  sell  out.  A  man 
came  along  who  was  willing  to  swap  with  him  for  some 
land  up  near  Lake  Superior.  The  Scotchman  showed 
the  man  the  hotel  building,  but  he  was  careful  not  to 
take  him  around  to  the  back  because  there  it  was  all 
bulging  out  and  ready  to  fall.  He  was  an  awful  talker 
— that  Scotchman — and  very  religious;  but  then,  the 
more  religion  a  man  has  the  more  likely  he  is  to  take 
advantage  of  you — that's  my  experience.  He  was  too 
thrifty  for  his  children  to  live  with  him.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  his  being  religious.  He  got  down  his  Bible 
and  read  a  chapter  night  and  morning,  and  he  had 
prayers  five  times  a  day.     His  prayers  weren't  short, 


Wisconsin  Watersides  269 

either.  He  never  stopped  till  he'd  prayed  for  every- 
thing In  the  world. 

"Well,  his  hotel  was  worth  about  eight  hundred 
dollars,  but  he  wanted  eight  thousand  for  it.  So  the 
other  man  put  the  price  up  on  his  land  from  ten  to  twelve 
dollars  and  a  half  an  acre  in  order  to  be  on  the  safe  side, 
and  the  swap  was  made.  They  swapped  in  the  fall  and 
the  Scotchman  reserved  the  privilege  of  keeping  on  at 
the  hotel  till  spring.  During  the  winter  he  cut  off  a 
nice  orchard  of  apple  trees  that  was  on  the  place  and 
burned  the  wood  in  his  stove.  But  the  other  fellow 
got  even  with  him,  for  he'd  sold  him  some  of  the  worst 
land  in  the  state.  It's  on  a  kind  of  drainage  ridge,  and 
is  so  dry  and  sandy  and  poorly  timbered  they  call  it 
the  'Barrens.'  The  old  Scotchman  is  living  up  there 
now. " 

It  was  a  relief  to  get  out  of  the  fire-scorched  north 
into  the  serene  and  pastoral  country  around  Green  Bay. 
Here  the  forest  period  was  long  enough  past  so  that  the 
scarred  landscape  left  by  lumbermen  and  fires  had 
healed,  and  the  cut-off  land  had  been  chastened  by  the 
plough  into  productive  smoothness.  Yet  trees  were 
not  lacking,  and  they  were  often  good-sized  and  hand- 
some, though  only  found  scatteringly  or  in  small  groves. 
When  I  left  the  train  I  went  for  a  ramble  along  the 
southern  shore  of  the  bay.  The  farmers  were  driving 
to  town  on  the  wide  dusty  roads  with  loads  of  produce, 
or  they  were  mowing  their  rowen,  or  gathering  golden 
pumpkins  among  the  cornshocks,  and  in  one  or  two 


270      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

fields  husking  had  begun.  By  and  by  I  came  to  a 
country  village.  It  was  a  mere  handful  of  buildings  at 
a  crossroads  on  a  hill.  A  little  Catholic  church  stood  on 
one  corner  with  a  garden  beside  it  where  the  priest  was 
pottering  around,  and  there  was  a  saloon  on  each  of 
two  other  corners.  The  remaining  corner  was  occupied 
by  a  blacksmith's  shop.  The  blacksmith  did  not  happen 
to  be  especially  busy,  and  I  loitered  at  the  door  of  his 
shop  while  he  commented  on  some  of  the  characteristics 
of  the  region,  past  and  present,  starting  with  some 
observations  on  the  local  weather. 

"Last  May,"  said  he,  "on  the  9th  day  of  the  month, 
we  had  pretty  near  a  foot  of  snow.  But  that  didn't  do 
any  harm  except  to  make  a  mess  of  the  roads.  Later, 
when  everything  was  coming  along  finely,  and  we  were 
having  nice  warm  days,  and  the  trees  had  blossomed, 
there  was  a  turn  of  the  wind,  it  grew  cold,  and  we  had  a 
frost  that  spoiled  all  our  chances  for  fruit  this  year. 
Often  it's  just  as  bad  at  the  other  end  of  the  season. 
I've  seen  it  freeze  everything  so  hard  on  the  2d  of 
September  that  the  vegetables  and  things  were  all 
killed,  and  the  leaves  fell  off  the  trees. 

"After  that  May  frost  it  got  hot  and  dry  so  blame 
sudden  and  kept  hot  and  dry  so  long  that  nothing  we 
planted  would  grow.  But  we  got  the  crops  started 
somehow  after  a  while,  and  we've  never  raised  any 
better  corn.  We  can't  brag  of  the  other  crops.  One 
day  a  neighbor  wanted  me  to  come  and  see  the  potatoes 
in  his  garden.    They  were  early  ones  that  had  been  ripe 


Wisconsin  Watersides  271 

for  some  time,  but  he  hadn't  dug  'em,  and  he  said  they 
were  sprouting  and  coming  up.  I  laughed  at  him  and 
wouldn't  believe  such  a  thing  was  possible  till  I  went 
and  looked  over  his  fence.  He  was  right.  The  green 
sprouts  were  coming  up  like  clover  all  over  the  potato 
hills.  There'd  been  a  heavy  rain  following  a  long  dry 
spell,  and  that  had  started  them,  but  it's  something  I 
never  had  heard  of  before. 

"This  used  to  be  a  French  Canadian  settlement, 
but  timber  is  the  main  holt  of  the  French,  and  they 
follow  it.  Their  boys  would  go  off  to  the  lumber  dis- 
tricts to  work,  and  in  the  end  the  old  folks  would  sell 
their  property  for  nothing  at  all  and  go  to  live  with  the 
children.  The  Hollanders  are  getting  most  of  the  land 
now.  If  a  farm  is  sold  you  can  pretty  near  tell  before- 
hand that  a  Hollander  will  buy  it.  They're  a  good  deal 
better  farmers  than  the  French  were.  Well,  sir,  I 
believe  a  Hollander  can  live  and  make  money  where 
people  of  any  other  nation  would  starve,  and  they  ain't 
slow  in  spending  a  quarter  either.  It's  simply  that  they 
get  more  out  of  the  land.  Some  of  'em  prosper  on  five 
acres,  and  if  you  strike  a  man  who's  got  a  hundred  acres 
he's  considered  a  good  big  farmer.  I  suppose  fifty 
acres  is  about  the  average  here.  The  Hollanders  are 
probably  more  economical  in  their  food  than  the 
Americans  are,  and  one  man  was  telling  me  they  e't 
food  he  didn't  consider  fit  for  his  hogs,  but  that's 
exaggerating. 

"They're  great  church-goers,  and  so  are  the  Protes- 


272      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

tants.  Out  three  miles  from  here  there's  quite  a  bunch 
of  Protestants,  and  they've  got  a  church  there.  I  attend 
that  church  myself,  and  every  time  I  go  I  meet  pretty 
near  all  of  'em.  The  church  here  draws  its  congregation 
from  a  territory  about  eight  miles  square,  and  whenever 
there's  a  service  at  the  church  these  Hollanders  are  on 
hand,  rain  or  shine.  I've  got  a  barn  that's  usually 
empty  and  so  has  my  next  neighbor,  and  in  case  the 
weather  is  not  nice  those  barns  are  full  of  teams.  It's 
a  matter  of  accommodation,  but  most  all  the  men  are 
customers  at  my  shop." 

While  we  were  talking  three  small  children  of  the 
blacksmith's  ran  past  us.  He  stopped  them.  "Where 
are  you  going,  you  fellows?"  he  asked. 

They  had  got  hold  of  a  penny  somewhere,  and  ex- 
plained that  they  were  on  their  way  to  the  store  to 
spend  it.  "Well,  go  on  quick,  or  I'll  cut  your  ears  off," 
said  their  father  in  a  gentle  and  affectionate  voice  that 
belied  the  fierceness  of  his  words. 

"Forty  years  ago,"  said  he,  turning  to  me,  "there 
were  no  sawmills  around  here,  and  the  settlers  lived 
in  log  cabins.  You  wouldn't  find  any  man  with  more 
than  five  or  six  acres  cultivated.  Some  of  the 
people  were  pretty  rough  and  wild,  and  there  are  fel- 
lows here  yet  that  you  wouldn't  want  to  go  to  and  tell 
just  what  you  think  of  them.  My  folks  came  from 
Belgium,  and  for  a  few  years  they  maybe  fared  a  little 
harder  than  they  had  in  the  old  country.  They  didn't 
starve,  but  that's  about  all  they  missed  in  the  way  of 


The  ■ivorki 


Wisconsin  Watersides  273 

hardship.  Them  first  settlers  had  a  tough  time.  I 
don't  believe  we  could  live  with  no  more  than  they  used 
to  have.  At  our  home  whenever  we  had  meat,  which 
wasn't  oftener  than  once  a  month,  we  considered  we 
were  having  a  feast.  We  never  kept  a  pig  and  wouldn't 
eat  pork  because  my  folks  were  Seventh  Day  Adventists 
and  didn't  believe  in  pork.  We  didn't  have  anything 
sweet — that  is,  no  pie  or  cake,  and  I'm  blame  sure  we 
wouldn't  buy  a  pound  of  sugar  in  a  year.  But  we  had 
maple  syrup. 

"My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  kid,  and  my  grand- 
mother had  to  keep  me  and  my  brother  going.  She  used 
to  fry  some  butter  with  the  vegetables,  and  that  did 
in  place  of  meat.  We  often  had  vegetable  soup,  and  we 
ate  corn  mush  and  Johnny  cake  and  wheat  bread. 
Coffee  in  them  times  was  something  that  was  pretty 
scarce.  Some  people  would  make  a  substitute  out  of 
brown  bread  crusts.  Others  would  take  barley  and 
toast  it  and  grind  it,  and  still  others  used  peas  treated 
the  same  as  the  barley.  You  might  have  to  go  to  a 
dozen  houses  before  you'd  get  a  cup  of  real  coffee.  My 
grandmother  was  very  saving.  Nothing  that  was  good 
for  food  went  to  waste,  and  I  don't  know  of  anyone 
who  could  put  things  together  so  nice.  She  brought  all 
sorts  of  seeds  from  the  old  country,  and  it  was  she  who 
kept  the  garden.  She  had  the  pride  of  the  village  so 
far  as  a  garden  was  concerned.  It  was  right  by  the 
cabin  near  the  road,  and  I  remember  people  saying  as 
they  passed  what  a  nice  garden  it  was.    We  had  lots  of 


274      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

different  vegetables  to  eat.  Yes,  sir,  my  grandmother 
was  a  great  old  woman  for  vegetables,  and  she'd  prepare 
'em  so  they'd  tas.te  fine,  but  I  might  not  like  'em  now. 

"We  were  Adventlsts  and  we  kept  Saturday  for  the 
Sabbath.  My  father  does  yet.  That  Is  all  right  on  the 
farm,  but  when  I  got  out  In  the  world  I  couldn't  strike 
no  steady  job  and  lay  off  Saturday.  Even  In  this  busi- 
ness, with  a  shop  of  my  own,  I  couldn't  do  It. 

"The  Sabbath  began  at  sundown  Friday.  You 
must  think  we  didn't  like  that  very  well  when  we  were 
small,  but  our  folks  gave  us  a  little  more  free  privileges 
than  most  Adventlst  boys  had.  There  were  eight  or 
nine  other  families  of  that  faith  In  the  neighborhood. 
At  first  they  had  their  meetings  at  the  houses,  one 
week  at  one  house,  and  the  next  week  at  another  house, 
but  later  they  built  a  church.  An  uncle  of  mine  was 
supposed  to  be  the  leader,  and  he  preached  usually. 
Once  In  a  while  a  missionary  would  come  and  preach, 
and  sometimes  we'd  have  kind  of  a  debate,  and  every- 
body would  have  a  chance  to  reason  and  discuss  the 
Word  and  tell  what  they  thought  of  It. 

"Those  Saturday  Adventlsts  used  to  tithe  their 
income,  but  I  don't  know  as  they  do  that  any  more. 
It's  some  twenty-five  or  thirty  years  ago  that  I'm 
talking  about.  Then,  if  they  sold  some  produce,  they'd 
turn  over  to  the  church  a  tenth  part  of  what  they  re- 
ceived for  it.  I  knew  one  family  that  wouldn't  eat  an 
egg  unless  It  was  marked  down  so  the  church  would  be 
sure  to  get  a  proper  proportion.    There's  no  other  reli- 


Wisconsin  Watersides  275 

gion  where  they  sacrifice  so  much.  Oh,  I  tell  you  they're 
the  most  sincere  Christians  there  is  in  their  beliefs. 
As  I  recall  them,  they  were  a  little  society,  you  might 
say,  that  was  just  trying  to  be  brothers  and  show  light 
to  the  world.  You  take  an  Adventist  that  you  owe 
money,  if  you  go  to  him  with  it  on  Saturday  he  won't 
take  it.  They  avoid  all  business  and  work  on  that  day. 
Some  don't  even  cook  their  meals  on  Saturday,  but 
prepare  the  food  the  day  before  and  eat  it  cold.  That's 
too  strict  for  me.  They  were  absolutely  temperance, 
and  they  wouldn't  touch  tobacco,  and  they  wouldn't 
believe  in  dances  or  no  game  of  no  kind. 

"Three  different  times  was  set  by  Advent  leaders  for 
the  world  to  come  to  an  end,  and  there  was  considerable 
excitement  getting  ready,  and  on  the  last  day  or  two 
some  would  stay  without  eating  and  spend  their  time 
praying.  I  can't  say  just  how  sure  they  were  that  the 
end  was  coming;  but  I  remember  a  funny  thing — my 
uncle,  one  of  those  times  when  the  world  was  coming  to 
an  end,  sold  his  farm.  The  end  was  expected  in  two 
years,  and  yet  he  gave  the  fellow  seven  years  to  com- 
plete his  payments  for  the  place.  I  don't  think  he 
believed  very  strong  in  the  world's  coming  to  an  end, 
or  he  wouldn't  have  been  willing  to  wait  till  five  years 
after  the  end  for  his  pay." 

From  the  village  hilltop  I  could  see  the  hazy  blue 
waters  of  the  bay  beyond  the  intervening  farmlands, 
and  a  strip  of  wooded  shore.  This  bay  was  visited  in 
September,   1679,  by  La  Salle,  who  put  in  here  with 


276      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

his  little  fifty  ton  vessel,  the  Griffon,  the  first  vessel 
that  ever  sailed  on  the  Great  Lakes.  The  Indians 
were  vastly  surprised  to  see  a  ship  in  their  country. 
To  them  the  vessel  was  a  great  curiosity,  and  scores  of 
canoes  would  at  times  gather  around  her  while  the 
savages  stared  at  and  admired  the  "fine  wooden  canoe" 
as  they  called  it. 

Here  La  Salle  collected  a  cargo  of  furs  with  which 
he  dispatched  the  Griffon  to  Niagara,  while  he  with  a 
part  of  his  men  embarked  in  four  canoes  to  proceed  on 
an  exploring  expedition  southward.  Hardly  had  the 
canoes  and  the  Griffon  parted  company  when  a  sudden 
autumn  storm  swept  across  the  lake.  While  the  waves 
threateningly  assailed  the  canoes,  darkness  fell,  and  it 
was  only  by  constant  shouting  that  the  men  kept  their 
boats  together  and  got  to  shore.  For  four  days  the 
storm  raged  with  unabated  fury,  and  La  Salle  and  his 
companions  waited  in  their  cheerless  encampment, 
living  on  pumpkins  and  maize  presented  by  a  friendly 
Indian  chief,  and  the  meat  of  a  single  porcupine  they 
killed. 

As  to  the  Griffon,  that  was  never  heard  of  again,  and 
to  this  day  none  can  tell  whether  the  ill-fated  bark  was 
swallowed  in  the  depths  of  the  lake,  destroyed  by 
Indians,  or  made  the  prize  of  traitors. 

La  Salle  did  not  turn  back,  but  when  the  lake  grew 
calm  continued  his  journey  along  the  Wisconsin  shore. 
Other  storms  delayed  him,  and  the  party  spent  wretched 
days  and  nights  among  the  rocks  and  bushes  crouched 


The  harvest 


Wisconsin  Watersides  277 

around  driftwood  fires  with  nothing  to  shelter  them 
from  snow  and  rain  but  their  blankets.  Often  steep 
high  bluffs  fronted  the  water  so  it  was  difficult  to  find  a 
landing-place;  and  when  they  did  land  they  not  infre- 
quently were  compelled  to  drag  their  canoes  to  the  top 
of  the  bluffs,  lest  by  leaving  them  exposed  all  night  to 
the  waves  they  should  be  dashed  to  pieces.  When  they 
reembarked  in  the  morning  it  would  perhaps  be  neces- 
sary that  two  men  should  go  into  the  water  waist  deep 
to  steady  each  canoe  until  it  was  loaded.  There  con- 
tinued to  be  lack  of  food,  and  the  men  paddled  from 
morning  till  night  with  nothing  to  eat  but  a  handful  of 
Indian  corn,  and  some  hawthorn  berries  which  they 
picked  on  the  shore  and  devoured  so  ravenously  they 
were  made  ill.  Exhaustion  and  famine  stared  them  in 
the  face  until  one  morning  as  they  were  paddling  along 
in  the  vicinity  of  what  is  now  Milwaukee  they  saw 
numerous  ravens  and  eagles  hovering  over  something 
on  the  land.  They  paddled  to  the  shore  and  found  the 
body  of  a  deer  which  had  been  killed  by  a  wolf.  This 
was  a  beginning  of  better  things,  though  they  con- 
tinued to  experience  not  a  little  of  uncertainty  and 
privation.  Indeed,  La  Salle  and  all  the  other  early 
voyagers  of  the  lakes  and  explorers  of  the  adjacent 
wilderness  were  doomed  to  almost  constant  discomfort 
and  peril. 

From  Green  Bay  I  went  up  the  Fox  River,  a  stream 
wild  in  name  and  formerly  abounding  in  rapids  and 
waterfalls,  but  now  it  is  a  succession  of  ponds  held  back 


278      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

by  dams,  and  at  every  dam  is  a  populous  manufacturing 
town.  It  is  the  outlet  of  Lake  Winnebago,  a  rather 
charming  sheet  of  water  rimmed  about  with  low  blue 
hills.  I  stopped  at  a  lakeside  town  and  went  for  a  walk 
among  the  farmlands.  It  was  a  pleasant,  prosperous- 
looking  region,  with  scattered,  park-like  groves  of  well- 
grown  elms,  oaks,  and  hickories,  in  whose  grassy  shade 
the  sleek  cattle  were  feeding.  Among  other  attractions 
I  saw  a  really  delightful  country  schoolhouse.  The 
surroundings  of  most  such  buildings  are  barren  and 
forbidding,  and  their  appearance  is  suggestive  of  the 
mechanical  grind  of  an  education  factory.  But  here  was 
a  tidy  white  structure  in  an  ample  yard  where  grew  a 
number  of  stalwart  oaks,  and  back  of  it  was  a  thick 
wood.  I  could  not  help  fancying  that  the  rugged  tree- 
trunks  and  vigorous  boughs,  the  whispering  leaves  and 
dappled  shadows  must  have  a  beneficent  influence  on 
those  who  attended  school  here;  yet  I  have  to  confess 
that  when  the  children  were  let  loose  for  recess,  while  I 
was  lingering  on  the  borders  of  the  yard,  they  were 
about  as  noisy  and  self-consciously  rude  in  their  at- 
tempts at  smartness  as  the  average.  I  asked  them  if 
they  played  in  the  woods,  and  they  said  they  used  to, 
but  the  teacher  had  forbidden  it  because  they  went  on 
through  to  an  orchard  and  stole  apples.  There  were 
thirty  children,  and  they  all  brought  their  dinners. 
Some  lived  near  by,  but  they  preferred  the  fun  of  eating 
with  their  mates.  Across  the  road  was  a  sober,  un- 
painted  building  in  which  the  children  said  the  people 


Wisconsin  Watersides  279 

of  the  neighborhood  had  grange  meetings,  dances, 
and  Sunday-schools.  Not  a  tree  softened  its  angular 
forlornness,  and  I  wondered  if  its  sorry  aspect  did  not 
dull  the  pleasure  of  the  merrymakings,  and  make 
sombre  the  religion  taught  there. 

In  my  further  rambles  around  the  region  I  made 
various  acquaintances,  among  whom  I  recall  with  most 
interest  a  Polish  farmer.  With  his  stubbly  beard  and 
corncob  pipe  and  rusty  clothing  he  was  not  at  first 
glance  by  any  means  prepossessing,  but  I  liked  his 
self-confidence,  and  his  alert,  keen-eyed  vigor.  He  had 
made  a  success  in  life  with  his  own  hands  and  was 
proud  of  the  fact.  Twenty-two  years  ago  he  came  to 
this  country  and  married.  He  had  nothing,  and  his 
wife  had  nothing.  Now  he  owns  his  place  clear  of  debt, 
and  has  money  in  the  bank.  He  had  paid  four  hundred 
dollars  an  acre  for  six  and  a  half  acres — a  price  that 
included  a  small  house  and  barn  in  rather  poor  repair. 
Both  land  and  buildings  had  been  improved,  and  the 
farm  was  worth  decidedly  more  than  his  investment. 
He  raised  small  fruits,  and  drove  around  the  country 
buying  chickens,  ducks,  geese,  sheep  and  other  crea- 
tures which  he  fatted  and  sold.  His  use  of  English  was 
somewhat  awkward,  with  reference  to  which  defect  he 
apologetically  observed  that  it  was  "hard  to  teach  an 
old  dog  new  tricks,"  but  that  his  children  were  learning 
the  language  all  right.  A  good  many  recent  comers 
from  Europe  were  acquiring  land  in  the  vicinity,  he 
said,  and  were  buying  out  the  old  settlers.    The  latter 


28o      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

often  were  not  thrifty,  did  not  want  to  work  very 
hard,  and  were  extravagant  in  spending.  There  were 
so  many  things  they  wanted  that  they  let  the  money 
slip  away  from  them  and  so  eventually  lost  their  farms. 

Later,  when  I  returned  to  the  town  I  chatted  about 
farm  conditions  with  one  of  the  merchants.  "As  a 
rule,"  said  he,  "the  land  around  here  gives  good  returns. 
Some  of  the  farmers  have  more  money  than  they  know 
what  to  do  with.  Their  houses  are  generally  trim  and 
comfortable,  their  barns  large  and  substantial,  their 
fields  clean  and  productive.  A  man  with  a  good  farm 
near  town  has  no  excuse  for  not  making  money.  I 
know  a  market  gardener  with  five  acres  who  clears  three 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  I'll  tell  you  what  he  done 
this  morning.  He  brought  in  a  load  and  went  around 
to  the  hotels  and  restaurants,  and  he'd  sold  out  in  a 
little  while,  and  that  load  brought  him  between  forty 
and  forty-five  dollars.  We  had  such  a  long  dry  spell 
in  the  early  summer  that  I  thought  his  cabbages  would 
never  grow  any  heads.  They  were  little  bits  of  wea- 
zened up  things,  but  we  got  a  good  rain  just  in  time  to 
save  'em.  Yes,  before  that  rain  the  country  got  to  be 
very  brown  and  scorched,  and  the  cattle  looked  lean 
and  hungry.  You  wouldn't  see  'em  scattered  about  the 
pastures  eating,  but  they'd  be  standing  under  the  trees 
and  in  some  pool  or  crick  if  they  could  find  any  that 
hadn't  gone  dry.  But  the  rain  seemed  to  give  us  spring 
again;   the  lawns  were  soon  just  like  green  velvet,  and 


A  schoolhouse 


Wisconsin  Watersides  281 

the  green  came  back  to  the  fields  and  pastures.    So  the 
farmers  have  had  about  an  average  good  year. 

"Some  of  'em  are  buying  automobiles,  but  take  the 
farmers  as  a  whole,  and  they  certainly  don't  have  any 
affection  for  autos  owned  by  townsmen.  If  a  farmer  is 
driving  along  the  road  he  will  never  get  out  of  the  way 
of  an  auto  that  is  coming  behind  him  until  it  is  right  up 
close  and  the  fellow  has  pumped  his  horn  for  a  while. 
Sometimes  he  won't  budge  even  then.  One  man  here 
in  town  was  out  on  a  stretch  of  lonely,  rough  country 
road  with  his  auto,  and  there  was  a  load  of  hay  in  front 
of  him.  He  couldn't  get  the  hay  man  to  turn  out,  and 
after  a  little  palaver  decided  to  back.  But  he  found  a 
fellow  behind  him  with  a  load  of  potatoes,  and  the 
potato  man  wouldn't  turn  out  any  more  than  the  hay 
man.  The  fellow  in  the  auto  wasn't  inclined  to  go  on 
at  that  snail's  pace  forever,  and  he  tried  to  pass  the  load 
of  hay.  The  result  was  he  got  ditched  and  had  to  pay 
the  potato  man  five  dollars  to  pull  him  out.  But  the 
next  day  he  had  those  two  farmers  appear  in  court  and 
they  was  fined  twenty  dollars  each  and  costs.  You  see 
they  hadn't  given  him  a  fair  show. 

"Of  course,  it  often  happens  that  the  farmers'  horses 
are  frightened  by  the  autos,  and  yet  if  there's  an  acci- 
dent the  man  running  the  auto  will  usually  stop  and 
settle  for  the  damages.  Still,  the  farmers  feel  pretty 
sore.  Sometimes  the  automobile  folks  raid  the  farmers' 
crops.     Right  here  in  today's  paper  it  tells  about  a 


282      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Chicago  woman  who  was  arrested  for  that  sort  of  per- 
formance.   Let  me  read  you  her  excuse: 

"  'The  motor  parties  get  out  in  the  country,  and  the 
things  smell  fresh  and  good,  and  they  simply  hop  over  a 
fence  and  provide  themselves  with  what  they  want. 
That's  not  stealing.  It's  hooking,  swiping.  We  took 
a  few  vegetables — about  two  cents'  worth,  and  a  few 
eggs.  We  built  a  fire  and  fried  some  of  the  eggs,  because 
we  were  hungry,  and  the  rest  we  threw  at  horses  and 
people  passing  on  the  road.  It  was  a  joy  ride,  and  we 
were  out  for  all  the  fun  we  could  have. ' 

"You  can't  blame  the  farmers  for  feeling  kind  of 
irritated.  Sometimes  they  attempt  to  get  even  by 
burying  a  piece  of  iron  pipe  in  the  roadway  dust.  The 
auto  strikes  it  and  gets  an  awful  bounce,  and  perhaps 
breaks  some  springs.  Another  trick  is  to  set  up  nails 
in  the  dirt  of  the  wheeltracks  to  puncture  the  auto 
tires.  You  might  think  the  farmers  would  be  afraid 
the  nails  would  get  in  their  horses'  feet,  but  a  horse 
doesn't  put  his  feet  down  from  above  but  gives  'em  a 
slide  that  would  bend  the  nails  down. 

"Oh,  the  owner  of  an  auto  has  trouble  all  the  time! 
There's  constant  breaks  and  expense,  and  in  two  years' 
time  so  many  improvements  have  been  made  in  the 
machine  that  his  is  out-of-date,  and  he  wants  a  new 
one." 


Note. — To  see  Wisconsin  in  a  pleasant  and  attractively  varied 
aspect  visit  the  shores  of  Green  Bay,  the  busy  manufacturing  villages 


Wisconsin  Watersides  283 

along  the  Fox  River,  and  the  thirty-mile  stretch  of  Lake  Winnebago. 
Here  are  prosperous  towns  and  fine  farming  country,  and  not  far 
away  is  Lake  Michigan.  The  sightseer  will  not  perhaps  wish  to 
linger  long,  and  I  only  suggest  that  the  vicinity  furnishes  a  good 
opportunity  to  get  acquainted  with  a  characteristic  portion  of  the 
great  state. 


XIV 

AN   ILLINOIS  VALLEY 

THE  settlement  of  northern  Illinois  and  Wis- 
consin brought  on  the  last  serious  Indian  out- 
break in  the  lake  region.  The  Indians  had  been 
pushed  farther  and  farther  west  by  the  whites  until,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  they  made  a  final  des- 
perate stand.  Black  Hawk  was  the  Indian  leader. 
His  career  had  been  warlike  from  early  youth,  and  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  the  scalping  of  an  enemy  had  gained 
him  the  coveted  right  to  paint,  to  wear  feathers,  and  to 
dance  the  war-dance.  Since  that  time  he  had  been 
involved  in  all  the  tribal  skirmishes,  and  had  played  a 
prominent  part  in  the  contests  with  the  white  men. 
During  the  winter  of  1832  he  recruited  a  large  force, 
and  in  the  spring  began  a  march  up  the  Rock  River 
Valley.  This  invasion  excited  great  alarm  along  the 
frontier,  and  the  settlers  left  their  lonely  farms  and 
gathered  in  the  larger  villages  which  they  hastened  to 
protect  with  stockades.  That  an  organized  body  of 
troops  might  be  put  into  the  field  to  oppose  the  Indians, 
the  governor  called  for  volunteers,  and  one  of  the  first 
to  enlist  was  Abraham  Lincoln,  who  was  then  twenty- 
three  years  old.  The  troops  promptly  started  to  follow 
Black  Hawk  up  the  valley.     There  were  no  roads  or 


The    bluffs    on    Rock    River 


An  Illinois  Valley  285 

bridges— only  marshy  trails,  and  the  streams  were 
swollen  into  torrents  by  the  spring  thaws.  But  the 
hardy  bxkwoodsmen  were  used  to  such  conditions  and 
they  mirched  steadily  onward.  Twenty-five  miles 
above  Di^on  they  overtook  the  Indians,  but  it  was  the 
latter  wb  did  the  attacking.  While  the  squads  of 
soldiers  wtre  scattered  without  any  regular  order  along 
half  a  mile,  of  valley,  Black  Hawk  and  his  bodyguard 
of  some  fifty  braves  dashed  out  on  them  with  wild  war- 
whoops.  Ihe  soldiers  became  panic-stricken,  and  in 
spite  of  the  efforts  of  their  officers  to  rally  them,  the 
flight  did  na  end  till  they  reached  Dixon. 

After  this  the  scene  of  the  campaign  drifted  away 
to  the  north  aid  west,  and  eventually  the  Indians  were 
humbled  and  lefeated. 

It  was  the  Hack  Hawk  interest  even  more  than  the 
wildly  suggesti/e  name  of  the  stream  that  drew  me  to 
the  Rock  Rivei;  and  one  serene,  sunshiny  day,  when 
the  landscape  wis  enveloped  in  silvery  haze  I  walked 
northward  from  Dixon  following  the  stream.  The 
river  was  sometmes  bordered  by  alluvial  meadows 
and  sometimes  by  rugged  bluffs  with  woodland  clinging 
to  their  milder  slopes.  The  oaks  were  reddening  with 
the  touch  of  autumn,  the  frost  had  yellowed  the  corn- 
fields, and  the  roadside  weeds  were  dead  and  brown. 

At  a  turn  of  the  nver,  where  it  makes  a  long  loop 
instead  of  pursuing  a  straight  course,  was  the  village 
of  Grand  Detour,  a  very  likable  little  place  with  a 
grassy  common  in  its  midst  where  some  horses  were 


286      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lake 

tethered  to  graze.  There  were  plenty  of  lar;e  trees, 
and  most  of  the  buildings  had  the  humanized  bok  that 
comes  only  with  age,  and  a  certain  attractiv:  quaint- 
ness  impossible  in  modern  and  up-to-date  sructures. 
I  stopped  at  one  of  the  houses  for  a  drink  of  vater  and 
found  the  old  oaken  bucket  still  in  use.  Thf  well  curb 
was  on  a  back  piazza,  and  I  lowered  the  bicket  by  a 
rude  wooden  windlass.  A  public  well  in  thestreet  near 
the  store  used  the  same  crude  method  of  getting  the 
water  from  the  cool  depths. 

"That's  good  water,"  said  an  elderly  nan  who  was 
sitting  on  the  store  steps.  "It's  hard,  hit  I  like  it. 
Back  in  Vermont  where  I  come  from  thewater  is  soft. 
I  was  there  last  year  on  a  visit,  and  after  being  used 
to  our  water  here,  that  Vermont  water  tasted  kind 
o'  squshy.  Seemed  as  though  it  needed  salting  or 
something.  My  woman  thought  it  wa;  funny  to  see 
running  water  in  every  house  there  They  all  had 
springs  on  the  hillsides  and  piped  the  water  right 
into  the  kitchens. 

"This  village  you're  in  used  to  be  quite  a  burg.  At 
one  time  it  was  bigger'n  Chicago.  Tiere  were  a  number 
of  stores  here,  several  blacksmith's  shops,  two  or  three 
hotels,  and  four  saloons  and  a  ploagh  factory,  a  wagon 
factory,  a  gristmill,  a  grain  elevator — blamed  if 
I  know  whether  there  was  anything  else  or  not. 
We  had  the  best  water-power  on  the  river.  This 
would  have  been  the  most  important  town  in  the  valley 
if  we  hadn't  tried  to  drive  too  sharp  a  bargain  with  the 


An  Illinois  Valley  287 

railroad.  The  railroad  wanted  to  come  here,  but  we 
said  they  must  pay  handsomely  for  the  privilege.  So 
they  went  to  Dixon  instead.  That  killed  Grand  Detour, 
and  it  has  been  dead  ever  since.  The  factories  moved 
elsewhere,  and  if  a  building  burnt  down  it  wasn't  built 
up,  and  finally  the  gristmill  quit  grinding  and  some  of 
the  foundation  washed  out  and  it  tumbled  over. 

"There  had  been  sawmills  near  here  along  Pine 
Crick,  but  they  couldn't  compete  with  big  mills  that 
started  elsewhere.  Yes,  those  big  mills  just  eat  the 
little  ones  up.  They're  squeezin'  'em  out  all  over.  So 
here  we  are — a  little  country  village,  and  the  business 
we  were  naturally  entitled  to  has  all  concentrated  at 
Dixon.  They've  got  some  walloping  big  cement  works 
down  there,  and  lots  of  other  mills  and  shops." 

I  presently  resumed  my  ramble  up  the  valley  with 
its  little  hills,  its  cultivated  fields  and  patches  of  wood- 
land, and  its  pleasant  farmhouses.  At  frequent  inter- 
vals along  the  river  loomed  the  beautiful  cliffs  that 
give  the  stream  its  name.  Once,  when  I  had  left  the 
road  and  was  tramping  beside  the  river,  I  met  a  hunter. 
He  had  no  game  and  said  it  had  grown  very  scarce  in 
recent  years.  "There's  more  back  East  than  there  is 
here  now,"  he  affirmed.  "About  all  you  can  find  is  a 
few  squirrels  and  rabbits.  Once  in  a  while  you  may  get 
a  duck,  but  not  often,  and  yet  thirty-five  or  forty  years 
ago  you  could  see  acres  of  'em  on  the  water  here. " 

However,  the  hunter  knew  of  one  wild  treasure  of  the 
vicinity  still  left.    That  was  a  cool  spring  in  a  bushy 


288      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

hollow,  and  thither  he  guided  me.  After  we  parted  I 
returned  to  the  river.  I  often  saw  fish  leaping  from  the 
water,  and  In  the  dusk  of  early  evening  I  came  across  a 
fisherman  going  home  with  a  well-filled  basket.  "These 
are  pike,  pickerel  and  bass,"  he  said.  "Such  fish  are 
not  easy  to  ketch  any  more.  Carp  have  been  put  In  the 
river  of  late  years,  and  they  knock  the  whey  out  of  the 
other  fish.  Besides,  they're  poor  eating.  I  can't 
stomach  'em.    They're  a  darn  nuisance." 

But  far  more  Important  commercially  than  the  fish, 
are  the  clams  that  Inhabit  the  river.  The  clamming 
season,  which  lasts  from  April  ist  to  October  1st,  had 
recently  closed  and  every  little  while  I  observed  a  great 
heap  of  shells  on  the  bank.  I  learned  something  of  the 
industry  at  the  hotel  In  the  town  where  I  stopped  that 
night.  "If  a  man  wants  to  go  clamming,"  said  the 
landlord,  "he  fixes  up  a  lot  of  four-pronged  wire  hooks, 
fastens  'em  with  short  strings  to  sticks  about  a  dozen 
feet  long — perhaps  as  many  as  two  hundred  hooks  to 
each  stick.  He  goes  out  In  a  little  flat-bottomed  boat, 
drags  down  stream,  and  pulls  up  his  stick  and  puts  it 
on  a  rack  at  the  side  of  the  boat.  Then  he  takes  off  the 
clams  that  have  clinched  onto  the  hooks  and  throws 
'em  into  the  boat.  On  the  shore  he  has  a  tank  under 
which  he  builds  a  fire  and  heats  water  to  put  the  clams 
into  and  make  'em  open.  As  he  takes  the  clams  out 
he  feels  for  pearls,  throws  the  shells  in  a  heap,  and  saves 
the  clams  to  give  to  farmers  to  feed  their  hogs.  I  tell 
the  farmers  who  use  that  sort  of  feed  to  fat  their  hogs 


A  farmyard  fa  fu  ily 


An  Illinois  Valley  289 

that  I  don't  want  to  buy  no  pork  of  'em,  but  probably 
it's  all  right.  They  feed  the  hogs  corn  before  they 
market  'em. 

"The  clam-opening  job  is  rather  odorous,  and  pearlln' 
don't  attract  very  high  grade  labor.  The  pearl  gather- 
ers are  mostly  kind  of  shiftless — too  lazy  to  do  anything 
else,  and  they  only  work  when  they  feel  like  it;  but 
pearl  hunting  is  profitable.  A  man  can  get  shells 
enough  in  a  day  to  net  him  four  dollars,  and  there's 
the  chance  to  make  a  big  thing  in  pearls  besides.  One 
fellow  in  this  town  got  a  pearl  that  sold  for  eighteen 
hundred  dollars.  I've  seen  'em  clear  as  glass,  and  so 
round  that  when  you  put  'em  down  you  could  hardly 
keep  'em  from  rollin'.  One  was  found,  in  another  part 
of  the  state,  this  year,  that  was  pink  in  tint  and  weighed 
fifty  grains  and  sold  for  five  thousand  dollars.  I 
wouldn't  give  five  dollars  for  all  there  are  in  this  river 
for  my  own  use. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  I  used  to  go  pearlin'  in  a  New 
England  river  near  my  home,  and  I  had  a  whole  teacup 
full  of  pearls  at  one  time.  I  took  'em  to  a  jeweler's 
store,  and  he  said  they  wasn't  any  good.  I  couldn't 
get  a  nickel  for  'em." 

In  the  hotel  office  was  a  gambling  machine,  and  a 
travelling  man  of  sporty  type  was  trying  his  luck  at 
it.  The  cost  was  five  cents  a  try,  and  the  returns  varied 
from  nothing  to  one  dollar  in  trade.  The  man  was  very 
persistent.  He  made  occasional  small  winnings,  but 
he  kept  on  whirring  the  machine,  for  he  would  not  be 


290     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

satisfied  with  anything  less  than  a  dollar.  The  other 
persons  in  the  room  desisted  from  reading  and  irrelevant 
talk  and  watched  him,  cciTimenting  from  time  to  time 
on  his  luck  and  relating  experiences  of  their  own  with 
this  or  other  gambling  machines.  Pretty  soon  a  red- 
nosed  fellow  with  a  ragged  coat  came  in.  By  this  time 
the  gambler  had  begun  to  make  remarks  more  forceful 
than  elegant  about  the  machine.  "That's  right," 
said  the  new-comer,  "stand  right  up  and  swear  at  it. 
Then  you'll  beat  it." 

Just  then  there  was  a  rattle  of  coins,  and  the  red- 
nosed  man  stepped  eagerly  closer.  "Oh!  you've 
hooked  a  dollar!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  did  I  tell 
you.?" 


Sure  enough,  the  gambler  had  attained  the  goal  of 
his  ambition,  and  he  went  over  to  the  counter  and 
got  a  dollar's  worth  of  cigars.  By  his  roundabout 
method  of  obtaining  them  they  had  probably  cost  him 
two  dollars.  Now  the  red-nosed  man  began  investing 
in  the  machine,  and  he,  too,  was  seeking  the  maximum 
prize  and  played  any  lesser  winnings  back  into  the 
machine  without  a  pause.  All  the  time  he  kept  up  a 
running  fire  of  comments.  "My  luck  seems  to  have 
stopped  short  off,"  he  remarked  after  he  had  seen  half 
a  dozen  nickels  disappear  in  succession  without  any 
benefit  to  him;  "but  I'm  staying  right  by  her.  Here," 
said  he,  motioning  to  the  landlord,  "you're  a  lucky 
slob.    Come  and  turn  the  handle  for  me." 

The  landlord  accommodated  him,  but  the  result  was 


An  Illinois  Valley  291 

another  blank.  "She's  all  mixed  up  this  morning," 
declared  the  red-nosed  man.  "You'd  better  put  her 
out  in  the  back  room;"  and  he  departed  without  mak- 
ing further  efforts  to  get  the  coveted  dollar. 

After  he  had  gone  I  made  some  remark  to  the  effect 
that  I  thought  it  a  pity  that  a  man  so  evidently  poverty- 
stricken  should  waste  his  money  as  he  had,  but  the 
landlord  said:  "Oh,  he's  got  plenty  of  money.  He's 
one  of  the  clammers,  and  he  won't  be  contented 
while  he  has  any  cash  left.  It's  only  nine  o'clock 
in  the  morning  now,  and  he's  just  starting  out  to 
enjoy  himself.  By  noon  he'll  be  so  drunk  he  can't 
stand  up." 

One  evening  during  my  stay  in  the  town  I  got 
acquainted  with  an  old  farmer  who  was  looking  into 
the  show  window  of  a  store.  He  was  a  loiterer  getting 
what  entertainment  he  could  out  of  the  sights  on  the 
street  and  he  seemed  entirely  willing  to  linger  there 
and  elucidate  his  opinions  of  life  in  the  region. 

"We've  been  prospered  in  some  ways  this  year," 
said  he,  "and  in  some  ways  we  ain't.  We  had  a  fair 
first  hay  crop,  but  we  didn't  get  no  second  one  at  all. 
Another  thing  that  was  both  bad  and  good  was  an 
awful  thunderstorm  that  come  about  the  beginning  of 
August.  It  gave  the  ground  a  needed  wetting,  but  four 
barns  in  the  neighborhood  where  I  live  was  struck  by 
lightning  and  burned.  One  was  right  catty-cornered  to 
my  place.  However,  the  man  it  belonged  to  was  well- 
off.    The  loss  didn't  cripple  him  any.    We've  got  first- 


292      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

rate  returns  on  what  we  had  to  sell.  Eggs  have  been 
bringing  a  good  price  right  along.  They  ain't  been 
lower  than  fourteen  cents  a  dozen  this  summer,  and 
butter  has  brought  twenty-five  and  thirty  cents  a 
pound.  I  can  remember  a  time  when  eggs  was  a  drug 
on  the  market.  You  couldn't  sell  'em  hardly,  and  felt 
lucky  to  get  six  or  eight  cents.  Same  with  butter. 
You'd  take  it  to  town  and  couldn't  get  nothing  for  it. 
I've  sold  it  for  ten  cents  a  pound — good  butter,  too. 
That  reminds  me  of  a  story.  A  woman  was  selling 
butter  to  a  man  who  was  buying  it  to  ship.  He  was 
smelling  and  tasting  of  it,  and  she  says:  'You  needn't 
be  so  careful.  That's  nice,  clean  butter.  I  was  up  all 
night  pickin'  hairs  out  of  it.' 

"We're  getting  higher  prices  than  we  used  to,  but 
seems  as  though  expenses  had  gone  up  faster  than 
the  income.  Why,  a  feller  could  hire  hands  once  for 
forty  cents  a  day  and  work  'em  all  day  and  half  the 
night.  By  gosh!  if  a  hired  man  then,  workin'  out  by 
the  month,  made  a  hundred  dollars  in  a  year,  every- 
body was  talking  about  it.  Now  you've  got  to  pay 
your  men  thirty  dollars  a  month,  and  keep  a  horse  for 
'em  besides,  if  they  want  to  drive  anywhere;  and  if 
you  get  ten  hours  work  a  day  out  of  'em  you're  doin' 
well. 

"I  hired  a  feller  last  year,  kind  of  a  tramp  that  came 
along.  At  first  I  hesitated,  but  he  urged  me  to  try 
him,  and  finally  I  did.  I  set  him  to  dragging  in  a  field 
some  eighty  rods  long  that  had  been  ploughed  a  few 


.4.    ^_^i.J.,,^ 


Putting  in  a  pane  oj  glass 


An  Illinois  Valley  293 

days  before.  At  supper  time  he  brought  in  the  horses, 
and  just  before  dark  I  went  to  see  what  sort  of  work 
he'd  been  doin'.  But  when  I  got  to  the  field — 'Thun- 
der!' I  says,  'where's  my  drag?'  I  couldn't  see  it 
anywhere.  'That's  funny,'  I  says.  'Has  anyone 
stolen  it?'  But  I  walked  down  to  the  far  end  of  the 
field  and  there  it  was.  I  came  to  the  house,  and  I  says 
to  the  feller,  'What'd  you  quit  way  off  at  that  far  end 
for?' 

"  'Why,'  he  says,  'that's  where  I  was  when  it  got 
to  be  six  o'clock. ' 

"That  shows  you  how  particular  they  are  about  the 
length  of  their  day,  and  how  little  intelligence  they 
have.  They  don't  use  brains.  I  had  a  Dutchman 
workin'  for  me  once,  and  I  told  him  to  clean  out  the 
hogpen.  In  order  to  show  him  how,  I  got  over  into 
the  pen  and  threw  out  a  couple  of  forkfuls.  Then  the 
Dutchman  threw  out  two  forkfuls  and  handed  back  the 
fork.  He  thought  he'd  finished  his  job.  You  can't 
hire  hardly  any  men  among  the  natives  to  work  on  the 
farm.  We  have  to  send  off  to  foreign  countries.  There's 
the  same  difficulty  in  securing  indoor  help.  If  a  man 
is  lookin'  for  a  woman  he  can  find  one;  but  if  he's  after 
a  hired  girl  instead  of  a  wife,  no.  Hired  girls  used  to 
be  plenty  at  a  dollar  to  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  week. 
Now  they're  scarce  at  a  dollar  a  day. 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  the  boys  and  girls 
don't  like  farming;  and  yet  you'd  think  it  ought  to  be 
more  attractive  than  ever  before.     We've  all  got  tele- 


294     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

phones  to  keep  us  In  touch  with  neighbors  and  the 
town,  and  the  work  is  done  with  ploughs  and  other 
machines  so  rigged  that  a  man  don't  have  to  go  afoot 
at  all.  The  houses  are  fitted  up  pleasant,  too,  with  nice 
furniture  and  lots  of  conveniences  and  things  to  enjoy. 
One  thing  you'll  find  in  about  every  home  is  a  piano. 
We  used  to  all  have  organs,  but  an  organ  is  no  good 
now — ain't  worth  ten  cents.  Besides  pianos  we've  got 
phonographs — oh,  yes!  we  can't  keep  house  without  a 
phonograph.  But  they're  gettin'  past.  They're  not  so 
much  of  a  curiosity  as  they  was.  You  get  away  from 
the  towns,  though,  and  the  remoter  and  more  lonely 
the  farm  is  the  surer  you'll  be  to  find  a  phonograph 
there. 

"Farming,  as  things  are  now,  has  a  whole  lot  of 
advantages,  and  yet  the  country  fellers,  just  as  soon 
as  they  get  big  enough,  strike  for  town.  Most  likely 
they  get  a  job  In  some  factory.  They  work  In  It  a  while 
and  go  to  another  factory,  and  so  on  around,  and  that's 
the  way  they  spend  their  lives.  A  man  who  starts  In 
doing  day's  work  In  town  never  gets  money  ahead. 

"The  girls  are  as  anxious  as  the  boys  to  leave  the 
farm.  They  don't  know  anything  about  cooking,  and 
don't  want  to  know  anything  about  It  either.  I  heard  a 
girl  saying  the  other  day  that  she'd  only  marry  on 
condition  that  her  mother  went  along  to  live  with  her 
and  do  the  cooking.  She  said  she  could  make  coffee 
and  get  a  lunch,  and  could  arrange  furniture  nice  in  a 
room,  but  that  was  all.    Well,  sir,  things  are  getting  to 


An  Illinois  Valley  295 

be  a  fright.  Lots  of  young  women  on  our  farms  don't 
know  how  to  make  butter.  Their  fathers  run  the  milk 
through  a  separator,  take  the  cream  to  a  creamery  and 
buy  the  butter  the  family  uses.  The  daughters  do 
nothin'  but  set  around,  and  their  main  ambition  is  to 
marry  some  man  who'll  take  care  of  'em. 

"We  Americans  want  all  the  time  to  work  less  and 
spend  more,  but  you  take  the  Germans,  and  they're 
different.  The  whole  family  works,  and  they  stay  on 
the  land;  and  yet  about  the  third  generation  they're  as 
bad  as  the  natives,  and  would  rather  starve  in  the 
town  than  live  in  plenty  on  a  farm.  The  boys  in  the 
old  families — them  that  do  want  to  farm — go  West 
where  the  land  is  cheaper.  The  rent  is  too  high  here. 
A  man  has  got  to  scratch  to  pay  five  dollars  an  acre 
rental,  and  that's  the  charge  on  ordinary  land  in  this 
region. 

"Speakin'  about  expenses,  it's  gettin'  so  the  farmers 
are  buyin'  automobiles  right  along.  Of  course,  some  of 
the  old  fellers  are  pretty  well  heeled,  and  it's  all  right 
for  them,  but  for  others  it's  extravagance.  A  neighbor 
of  mine  has  just  bought  one.  He's  a  renter  who  pays 
fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year  for  his  place.  I  wouldn't 
think  he  could  afford  an  auto.  But  perhaps  he  can. 
He  had  an  awful  drove  of  hogs  there  this  summer. 

"Another  recent  auto  buyer  ain't  one  and  twenty 
yet.  He's  inherited  money,  but  he's  not  overly  bright. 
He  used  to  keep  a  horse  for  driving  purposes,  and  he 
was  complaining  to  me  one  day  because  it  cost  so  much 


296      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

to  feed  the  animal.  'Why  don't  you  turn  your  horse 
out  to  pasture?'  I  says. 

'"'T would  fade  out  his  color,'  he  says,  'and  I'm 
too  proud  to  drive  a  sunburnt  horse.' 

"Some  men  are  bound  to  have  an  auto  even  if  they 
have  to  mortgage  their  farms  to  get  one — they  do  that 
every  day  in  the  week.  At  this  time  of  the  year  they're 
realizing  on  their  crops  and  stock,  and  they  feel  a  little 
better  off  than  they  really  are,  but  a  good  many  will 
get  pinched  by  spring,  and  their  autos  will  be  on  the 
market  for  sale  cheap. 

"It  ain't  every  man  that's  fit  to  have  an  auto. 
There's  a  manufacturer  in  this  town  who  runs  his 
machine  when  he's  fairly  loony  with  drink,  and  he 
runs  it  fast,  too.  I'm  expecting  any  time  to  hear  that 
his  auto  has  run  ag'in'  a  house  or  climbed  a  tree.  Fast 
riding  is  one  of  the  failings  of  the  autoists,  and  they 
won't  give  a  team  any  more  of  the  road  than  they  have 
to.  A  relative  of  mine  was  out  one  night  in  an  open 
buggy,  and  an  auto  come  along  with  no  lights.  It 
tore  up  his  buggy  and  knocked  him  out  and  went  on 
without  stopping  to  find  out  whether  he  needed  help 
or  was  killed.  He  never  could  find  out  who  the  auto- 
mobile man  was  so  as  to  have  him  pulled  and  fined. 
The  only  way  to  do  is  to  carry  a  gun.  Some  of  the  men 
running  around  in  automobiles  need  a  lesson,  and  they 
need  it  bad. 

"But  I'll  say  this — if  a  horse  is  frightened  at  auto- 
mobiles his  place  is  on  the  plough,  or  he  ought  to  be 


Getting  the  mail 


An  Illinois  Valley  297 

sold  and  shipped  to  Chicago.  A  horse  that's  drove  in  a 
big  city  soon  learns  that  the  autos  ain't  goin'  to  hurt 
him;  and  in  time  the  horses'U  get  used  to  'em  here. 
A  few  years  ago  our  horses  were  scairter  at  bicycles  than 
they  are  at  autos  now.  But  if  a  man  has  got  a  plug  he 
can  always  sell  it.  There's  Jews  go  around  buyin'  up 
horses  that  ain't  wanted  on  the  farms  and  payin'  all 
the  way  from  twenty-five  to  three  hundred  dollars  for 
'em.  Good  horses  find  a  ready  sale,  too,  and  if  you've 
got  a  nice  team  people  are  lookin'  'em  over  and  chasin' 
after  'em  all  the  time." 

We  would  have  talked  longer,  but  just  then  the 
store  lights  were  turned  out  and  we  were  left  in  gloom 
on  the  sidewalk.  In  parting,  my  companion  said: 
"I've  been  in  twenty-four  states,  and  after  all  I've  seen 
elsewhere  I  think  this  is  pretty  good  country  right  here. 
I'm  satisfied  with  Illinois,  and  I'm  satisfied  with  the 
Rock  River  Valley.  But  I  was  born  and  raised  in  a 
town  myself,  and  I  get  lonesome  on  a  farm.  So  I'm 
goin'  to  sell  out  and  move  to  the  village. " 

My  final  day  in  the  region  was  spent  for  the  most  part 
in  another  farmland  ramble,  this  time  well  back  from 
the  river.  The  wayside  dwellings  were  large  and  stood 
at  some  distance  from  the  public  road,  with  generous 
barns  and  a  medley  of  sheds  and  machines  and  straw 
stacks  beyond  them.  Usually  there  was  a  windmill  to 
supply  water  for  the  barn  and  also  what  was  used  in  the 
house  for  cooking  and  drinking  purposes.  But  near 
the   kitchen  door  was   an  ordinary  pump  connected 


298      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

with  a  cistern  that  caught  the  drainage  from  the  roofs 
and  supplied  soft  water  for  washing.  The  house  was 
pretty  sure  to  have  shade  trees  about  it,  and  often 
there  was  a  small  fruit  orchard  between  it  and  the  road. 
Every  main  highway  was  evidently  a  Rural  Delivery 
route,  and  there  were  mail  boxes  on  posts  by  the  way- 
side wherever  a  byroad  branched  away,  or  a  lane  led 
to  a  farmhouse. 

The  autumn  was  well  advanced,  but  as  yet  there  had 
not  been  a  severe  freeze,  and  the  drone  of  insects  filled 
the  air.  From  fences  and  wayside  trees  extended  many 
a  cobweb  streamer,  and  I  was  continually  catching 
them  on  my  clothing  or  on  my  face,  and  sometimes  I 
gathered  in  a  spider  aeronauting  on  his  filmy  thread. 
Once  I  saw  a  flight  of  perhaps  half  a  hundred  wild 
geese  cleaving  the  sky  southward,  honking  and  hasty. 
The  wind  rustled  over  the  many-acred  cornfields. 
When  I  looked  down  on  these  cornfields  from  a  hilltop 
they  often  spread  about  on  all  sides  like  a  billowy 
yellow  ocean. 

"Lots  and  lots  of  our  corn  won't  be  cut,"  said  a 
farmer  whom  I  had  accosted  where  he  was  digging 
potatoes  in  a  jungle  of  weeds  assisted  by  a  young  fellow 
and  a  small  boy.  "The  price  of  hay  rules  that  a  good 
deal.  If  hay  is  scarce  we  house  more  corn  fodder;  but 
most  of  the  corn  is  husked  from  the  standing  stalks, 
and  then  we  turn  in  the  cattle.  The  cattle  are  out 
browsing  around  in  the  cornfields  every  day  all  winter. 
It  don't  make  no  difference  how  cold  it  is.     We  turn 


An  Illinois  Valley  299 

'em  out  even  if  the  thermometer  is  below  zero,  unless 
the  wind  blows  too  much,  yes,  you  bet!  But  last  winter 
we  had  an  extra  amount  of  snow.  It  come  early  in 
December  and  stayed  into  March.  You  notice  that  in 
the  hollows  there  are  deep,  steep-sided,  dry  ravines 
torn  out  by  the  water  in  the  spring  and  after  heavy 
rains.  Those  got  filled  with  snow  last  winter,  and  there 
was  danger  the  cows  and  steers  would  flounder  into  'em 
and  not  be  able  to  get  out.  So  we  fed  our  stock  in  the 
barns.  Generally  they  eat  considerable  of  that  field 
fodder.  But  that's  according  to  how  hungry  you  keep 
'em.  At  most  I  don't  s'pose  they  get  more'n  a  quarter 
of  it.  However,  they  trample  down  what  they  don't 
eat  so  we  can  go  over  it  with  a  disc  harrow  and  cut  up 
the  stalks  enough  to  plough  under.  You'll  see  some 
good-sized  fields  of  corn  here — thirty,  forty  and  even 
fifty  acres." 

It  was  very  warm  in  the  clear  sunshine  on  the  dusty 
road,  and  when  I  was  on  my  way  back  to  town  in  the 
afternoon  I  was  glad  to  be  asked  to  ride  by  a  butcher 
who  overtook  me  with  his  cart.  It  was  a  rather  primi- 
tive two-horse  vehicle,  its  sides  shut  in  by  black  cur- 
tains, and  having  a  rude  box  at  the  rear  that  contained 
the  meat.  One  horse  was  white,  the  other  brown. 
They  jogged  soberly  along  carrying  their  heads  level 
with  their  backs.  The  driver  was  smoking  his  pipe. 
At  his  feet  was  a  stout  handbell  he  used  to  summon 
his  customers  to  the  roadside,  but  he  had  made  the  last 
call  on  his  route  and  we  went  on  without  stopping. 


300      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"It's  hot  today,"  he  observed,  "but  this  is  nothing 
compared  with  summer.  The  thermometer  goes  up 
over  a  hundred  sometimes,  and  you  get  wringin'  wet 
with  sweat,  just  walkin'.  But  I'm  out  with  my  cart 
four  days  a  week  no  matter  what  the  weather  is,  and 
each  of  those  days  I  cover  about  thirty-five  miles.  I 
have  to  be  up  getting  ready  at  half-past  two,  and  I 
start  at  four.  That's  workin' for  a  livin';  but  if  I  didn't 
cover  these  routes  someone  else  would.  There  are  two, 
and  I  go  over  'em  twice  each  week. 

"This  is  a  nice  town  where  my  shop  is,  or  it  was  until 
this  year.  It  voted  license  at  the  last  election,  and  now 
the  place  has  six  saloons,  and  they  pay  a  thousand 
dollars  license  apiece.  That  means  a  big  lot  of  money 
is  spent  to  support  'em.  It's  astonishing  how  many 
deads  there  are  since  the  saloons  opened  up.  One 
doctor  had  four  cases  of  delirium  tremens  at  the  same 
time.  Money  was  much  easier  under  no-license,  and 
it  was  no  trouble  to  collect  your  bills.  You  rarely  saw  a 
drunken  man.  There  was  no  saloons,  and  so  the  fellows 
didn't  see  liquor,  and  thought  nothing  about  it  and 
didn't  know  they  wanted  it.  What  liquor  was  drank 
had  to  be  sneaked  in,  and  much  as  a  dozen  bootleggers 
was  arrested.  There  never  was  a  town  yet  that  license 
benefited.  I  don't  mind  a  fellow's  takin'  a  drink  of 
beer  or  whiskey  now  and  then,  but  when  he  stands  up 
at  the  bar  and  drinks  more'n  he  would  of  water  there's 
something  wrong." 

We  presently  reached  town  and  I  found  a  game  of 


An  Illinois  Valley  301 

quoits  in  progress  near  the  railroad  station.  The 
players  and  onlookers  were  mostly  a  lot  of  ancients  with 
various  antique  trims  of  whiskers.  There  were  trees 
and  sheds  that  afforded  shade,  and  the  sheds  added  a 
touch  of  lively  color  to  the  scene,  for  they  were  be- 
dizened with  circus  posters.  Some  boxes  and  blocks 
and  a  board  propped  up  on  stones  furnished  seats. 
The  majority  of  the  onlookers  sat  silent  but  interested, 
and  most  of  the  commenting  was  done  by  a  fat  man  who 
fairly  bubbled  over  with  excitement  and  enthusiasm. 
Here  are  some  fragments  that  indicate  the  tenor  of 
his  remarks: 

"Ah!  that's  a  good  one!  but  don't  you  laugh  before 
you're  through.  Now  that  there  you  can  slop  off. 
'Tain't  much  use  if  you  have  a  slide.  It  was  too  hard — 
that  last  one.  They  both  count  now — and  now  they 
don't.  Five  to  three!  There,  you've  got  a  ringer;  don't 
hit  it.  That  was  a  sticker.  That's  the  kind!  If 
you  don't  laugh  I  will  for  you.  Now  you're  just 
even — ten  apiece.  Well,  this  is  a  pretty  close  game, 
aw,  yes!  You  ought  to  go  out  now.  If  you  pitch  close 
enough,  you  can;  but  that  won't  do.  Well,  sir,  I 
don't   know  whether  it  will  or   not,   by  jingoes!" 

And  when  I  went  away  on  my  train  several  of  the 
men  were  stooping  intent  around  the  quoits  while  one 
of  them  with  a  little  stick  measured  the  distance  of 
two  opposing  quoits  that  were  so  equally  near  the  pin  it 
was  doubtful  which  would  count. 


302      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

Note. — The  Rock  River  is  notably  charming,  with  its  magnifi- 
cent bordering  cliffs  and  patches  of  woodland  intermitting  with 
pastures  and  cultivated  fields.  Perhaps  it  can  nowhere  be  seen  to 
better  advantage  than  in  the  dozen  miles  above  Dixon.  The  pictur- 
esque clam  industry  adds  to  the  attraction  of  the  stream,  and  there 
is  much  of  interest  in  the  village  and  farmlife;  and  besides  there  is 
the  historic  interest  that  comes  from  the  fighting  that  occurred  here 
in  the  Black  Hawk  War. 


XV 

TIPPECANOE 


1  wanted  to  see  the  Tippecanoe  battlefield,  partly 
because  of  the  fame  of  the  battle,  partly  because 
the  euphonious  name  appealed  to  my  fancy  and  was 
suggestive  of  many  varied  charms.  The  battle  occurred 
seven  miles  north  of  the  present  city  of  La  Fayette  In 
Indiana.  It  was  possible  to  go  to  the  spot  from  La 
Fayette  by  steam  cars  or  trolley,  but  I  preferred  to 
walk.  The  road  took  me  along  the  banks  of  the  Wabash 
and  at  first  was  uninterestingly  suburban.  Presently, 
however,  I  came  to  a  beautiful  piece  of  woodland, 
which  seemed  to  be  a  genuine  fragment  of  the  ancient 
forest  that  used  to  cover  all  the  northeastern  portion 
of  our  country,  but,  alas!  it  was  being  cut  off.  I  could 
hear  the  choppers'  axes,  the  voices  of  men  who  with 
their  teams  were  dragging  out  the  logs;  and  there, 
beside  the  road,  was  an  engine  and  a  saw.  Nature's 
temple  was  being  converted  Into  ugly  piles  of  boards 
and  beams. 

On  a  knoll  among  the  trees  a  tent  had  been  erected, 
and  here  most  of  the  workers  would  live  all  winter. 
A  stovepipe  elbowed  out  at  one  end  of  the  tent,  and  as  I 
was  looking  around  in  its  vicinity  a  woman  who  served 
as  cook  came  out  to  get  some  wood  for  the  fire.    The 


304      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

twinkle  of  a  birdsong  of  more  than  ordinary  sweetness 
had  just  come  to  my  ears,  and  I  asked  the  woman  if 
she  knew  what  bird  it  was  I  heard. 

"It's  a  redbird,"  she  replied.  "A  few  stay  here  the 
year  round,  but  they're  most  plenty  in  spring.  There's 
a  good  many  birds  and  little  animals  in  these  woods. 
A  fox  squirrel  and  a  gray  squirrel  live  in  that  big  oak 
just  down  the  hill.  They  play  there  and  bark  at  us. 
There's  lots  of  hollers  in  the  trees  on  this  track  of  land 
for  the  squirrels  to  build  in.  We  often  see  rabbits,  and 
now  and  then  one  of  the  men'U  slip  out  and  kill  a  part- 
ridge. This  is  the  last  fine  timber  left  in  the  region. 
It's  a  beautiful  scenery,  I  think." 

I  went  on  up  into  the  woods  to  where  a  squad  of  men 
were  at  work,  some  felling  trees  and  chopping  off  the 
branches,  some  sawing  the  trunks  into  logs,  or,  if  the 
trees  were  small,  sawing  off  short  lengths  that  could  be 
shaped  with  a  broadaxe  into  railroad  ties.  Two  little 
girls,  daughters  of  the  cook,  were  there  watching  the 
men  and  sometimes  helping  saw.  As  yet,  not  much  of 
the  forest  had  been  destroyed,  and  some  of  the  smaller 
trees  were  being  left  with  the  idea  that  the  deforested 
tract  might  sell  for  building  lots  at  a  higher  price  if  a 
little  of  its  vernal  character  was  retained.  So  the  aspect 
of  the  half  devastated  woodland  with  its  scattered 
workers  was  idyllic  rather  than  otherwise. 

When  I  returned  to  the  road  beside  the  Wabash  I 
went  on  northward,  and  my  next  pause  was  to  speak 
with  three  men  who  were  repairing  the  telephone  line. 


Ilezving  out  railroad  ties 


Tippecanoe  305 

I  asked  them  about  the  battlefield,  and  one  of  them 
said:  "If  you're  interested  in  that  old  fight,  you  want 
to  see  the  Prophet's  Rock.  You'll  find  it  in  the  woods 
right  by  the  road  two  miles  above  here.  It's  a  pretty 
good-sized  chunk,  and  juts  out  of  the  hillside  like  a 
shelf.  Everybody  goes  to  see  that,  and  those  who  have 
cameras  and  are  jerkin'  pictures  never  fail  to  jerk  the 
shadow  of  the  Prophet's  Rock. 

"My  grandfather  was  one  of  the  first  settlers  at 
Battleground — that's  what  they  call  the  village  which 
is  close  by  where  the  fighting  took  place.  He  and 
Uncle  'Rastus  Barnes  and  a  few  others  come  here  about 
the  same  time  in  1832.  I've  heard  him  say  he  could  go 
out  from  his  house  half  a  mile  in  any  direction  and  be 
sure  to  see  deer.  It  was  the  Indian  custom  to  let  fires 
run  through  the  woods  every  fall  to  keep  down  the 
underbrush  and  give  the  deer  good  grazing.  So  there 
was  nothing  but  big  timber,  like  a  grove,  and  he  had  to 
go  two  miles  to  find  a  stick  small  enough  for  a  sled 
tongue.  Those  early  comers  might  have  got  much 
better  land  by  settling  on  the  prairies,  but  they  were 
used  to  being  in  a  timber  country  where  there  were 
springs,  and  to  settle  on  the  prairie  would  have  seemed 
to  them  like  going  out  of  the  world. " 

I  soon  left  the  telephone  men  at  their  work,  and 
about  an  hour  later  I  arrived  at  Battleground.  The 
place  is  a  snug  little  trading  center  with  a  group  of 
stores  that  have  in  front  of  them  lines  of  posts  connected 
by  chains  or  iron  rods  for  the,  convenient  hitching  of 


3o6      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

the  teams  of  country  customers.  There  were  a  number 
of  right-angled  streets  bordered  by  excellent  cement 
walks.  The  dwellings  were  only  slightly  back  from 
these  walks  and  elbowed  each  other  quite  closely.  They 
were  tree-shadowed  and  very  tidy  with  lawns  at  the 
front  and  gardens  behind.  Few  of  them  aspired  to  a 
height  of  more  than  a  story  and  a  half,  and  only  the 
mildest  attempts  at  architectural  adornment  were  in 
evidence,  and  these  seldom  successful.  Indeed,  the 
lack  of  ostentation  was  one  of  the  charms  of  the  place. 
There  was  no  rivalry  to  outdo  each  other  in  the  home 
buildings.  Here,  it  would  seem,  was  a  village  where 
the  people  found  happiness  in  simple  pleasures,  and 
where  comfort  and  contentment  were  universal. 

Immediately  south  of  the  village  is  a  grove,  stoutly 
fenced  about,  and  containing  a  slender,  graceful  memo- 
rial shaft  of  granite  that  towers  above  the  treetops. 
The  grove  occupies  a  tongue  of  land  that  is  a  continua- 
tion of  the  village  plateau,  and  that  has  a  considerable 
extent  of  low  ground  on  three  sides  of  it.  Here  the 
battle  was  fought  on  November  7,  181 1. 

The  territory  of  Indiana,  with  a  population  not  ex- 
ceeding six  thousand,  and  at  that  time  only  ten  years 
old,  had  been  suffering  much  from  the  incursion  of  the 
savage  warriors  on  the  scattered  white  settlements. 
In  August,  Governor  William  Henry  Harrison  called 
for  troops  to  get  together  to  punish  the  Indians,  and 
they  assembled  to  the  number  of  about  a  thousand  at 
what  is  now  Terre  Haute.     Some  of  the  men  were 


Tippecanoe  307 

United  States  Infantry,  and  a  few  came  from  Kentucky, 
but  two-thirds  were  militia  of  the  territory.  On  the 
high  west  bank  of  the  Wabash,  near  where  it  is  joined 
by  the  Tippecanoe,  several  hundred  Indians  had  gath- 
ered under  the  leadership  of  the  famous  Tecumseh  and 
his  brother.  The  latter  had  assumed  the  functions  of  a 
prophet,  and  the  camp  was  called  "The  Prophet's 
Town. " 

Against  this  town  General  Harrison  moved,  and  on 
the  evening  of  November  6th  he  arrived  in  sight  of  it. 
Tecumseh  had  gone  south  to  stir  up  and  bring  other 
Indians  to  assist  against  the  whites,  and  his  brother 
who  was  in  sole  charge,  sent  a  messenger  to  meet  the 
invaders.  This  messenger  carried  a  white  flag  on  a  pole. 
When  he  was  brought  before  General  Harrison  he  said: 
"Why  do  you  come  here  with  your  army.^*  We  have  in 
our  town  none  but  women  and  children.  Go  into 
camp,  and  we  will  treat  with  you  on  the  morrow." 

He  seems  to  have  been  believed;  none  of  the  army 
expected  a  battle,  and  the  Kentuckians  grumbled  and 
swore  because  the  prophet  was  so  peaceful.  They 
built  their  campfires  on  the  narrow  end  of  the  plateau, 
and  the  Indians  standing  on  a  ridge  a  quarter  mile  to 
the  west  counted  the  fires  and  knew  the  exact  location 
of  all  parts  of  the  army.  At  four  in  the  morning  a 
drizzling  rain  had  begun  to  fall,  when  a  picket  saw  a 
suspicious  movement  in  the  grass  and  weeds  in  front  of 
him,  and  he  fired  his  musket.  It  had  been  the  Indian 
purpose  to  shoot  the  pickets  with  their  silent  arrows 


3o8      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

and  then  rush  forward  with  tomahawk  and  scalping- 
knife  on  the  slumbering  army.  Fortunately  the  troops 
had  been  ordered  to  sleep  in  line  of  battle  with  their 
weapons  attheirsides,  and  when  the  report  of  the  sentry's 
gun  rang  through  the  camp  they  were  quickly  on  their 
feet  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder.  The  savages  made 
their  rush,  and  the  awful  Indian  yell  resounded  on  all 
sides  of  the  encampment,  but  they  found  the  whites 
prepared.  They  were  repelled  and  continued  the 
assault  from  behind  trees  and  from  among  the  branches, 
some  with  bows  and  arrows,  some  with  powder  and 
ball.  Several  times  they  attempted  another  charge 
with  frantic  shrieks  and  screams,  but  each  time  were 
driven  back  in  confusion. 

Meanwhile  the  prophet  had  gone  off  across  a  swampy 
level  beyond  harm's  reach,  and  standing  on  the  rock 
that  projected  from  the  ridge  was  working  his  charms 
and  praying  for  victory.  He  had  assured  his  followers 
that  the  Great  Spirit  would  change  the  whites'  powder 
into  ashes  and  sand;  but  daylight  came  and  the  whites 
still  held  their  ground.  Then  they  made  a  bayonet 
charge,  and  the  disheartened  Indians  fled  across  the 
swamp.  Thirty-seven  of  the  whites  had  been  killed 
and  one  hundred  and  fifty-one  wounded.  An  Indian 
woman  who  was  captured  later  said  that  one  hundred 
and  ninety-seven  of  the  Indian  warriors  were  missing. 

Harrison  had  won,  yet  his  position  was  critical.  He 
had  very  little  flour,  and  no  meat;  for  the  few  cattle 
he  had  brought  along  had  been  either  driven  off  by  the 


A 


'%-'^' 


Saturday  afternoon  in  tozvn 


Tippecanoe  309 

Indians  or  had  been  stampeded  by  the  noise  of  the 
battle.  What  saved  him  was  the  fact  that  the  Indians 
made  no  attempt  to  harrass  him.  They  had  abandoned 
their  village  near  the  mouth  of  the  Tippecanoe,  two 
miles  northeast  of  the  battlefield,  and  had  gone  from 
the  region  in  a  panic.  On  the  day  after  the  engagement 
some  of  the  cattle  were  recovered  and  the  whites  took 
possession  of  the  Indian  town.  There  they  found  stores 
of  beans  and  corn,  and  after  they  had  taken  what  they 
could  transport  they  burned  all  the  huts  and  supplies 
that  the  Indians  were  treasuring  for  winter,  and  went 
their  way. 

This  battle  of  Tippecanoe  was  more  critically  impor- 
tant than  would  be  thought  from  the  comparatively 
small  number  concerned  in  it.  Never  again  did  a 
purely  Indian  army  combat  the  whites  east  of  the 
Mississippi.  Had  they  won,  the  horrors  the  defenceless 
frontier  must  have  experienced  would  have  been  appall- 
ing. But  now  they  were  disheartened  and  their  power 
was  broken.  When  news  of  the  victory  was  dissemi- 
nated, then  began  the  advance  of  the  settlers,  and 
their  covered  wagons  appeared  in  all  parts  of  the  ter- 
ritory. Scarce  had  the  smoke  of  battle  cleared  away 
when  there  was  heard  throughout  the  land  the  stroke 
of  the  woodman's  ax  and  the  voice  of  the  ploughman. 

But  what  of  Tecumseh.''  He  had  counseled  the 
prophet  to  avoid  an  engagement  until  he  returned. 
To  quote  a  local  resident — "Tecumseh  was  mad. 
This  'ere  brother  of  his  had  got  the  tribe  licked  while 


310     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

he  was  gone.  So  he  took  the  prophet  by  the  hair  of  the 
head  and  gave  him  a  jerk  or  two  to  show  what  he 
thought  of  him.  For  a  while  the  Indians  had  to  live  on 
horseflesh,  food  was  so  scarce." 

The  village  of  Battleground  is  perhaps  seen  at  its 
liveliest  on  a  Saturday  evening.  I  found  it  had  quite  a 
holiday  aspect  then.  The  week's  work  was  ended,  and 
the  people  were  ready  to  relax  and  turn  their  minds 
to  other  things.  They  flocked  in  from  the  country, 
and  at  the  hitching-places  the  teams  were  as  thick  as 
they  could  stand.  Groups  of  men  gathered  here  and 
there  on  the  sidewalks,  and  there  was  much  visiting 
among  those  who  were  trading  in  the  stores,  and  the 
barber's  shop  was  an  especially  busy  place.  Over  many 
of  the  stores  were  lodge  rooms,  and  these  were  brightly 
lighted  and  suggestive  of  social  good  cheer.  One 
institution  that  the  village  supports  is  a  restaurant. 
It  was  in  a  rude  little  building  a  single  story  in  height. 
Meals  were  served  in  a  back  room,  and  there  was  a 
front  room  where  were  counters  and  meagerly  stocked 
shelves,  and  you  could  buy  ice  cream,  candy,  chewing 
gum,  and  some  other  small  wares.  Two  helpings  of 
ice  cream  were  the  usual  requirement.  Customers 
were  free  to  sit  on  the  stools  in  front  of  the  counters  and 
chat,  and  spit  on  the  floor  as  much  as  they  pleased. 
Out  in  front,  under  a  porch  roof,  were  benches  for  the 
convenience  of  other  loiterers,  and  at  the  rear  was  a 
clump  of  trees  and  a  pump  where  the  leisurely  also 
liked  to  linger. 


Tippecanoe  3 1 1 

In  a  grove,  between  the  residential  portion  of  the 
village  and  the  battlefield  park,  was  a  camp  meeting 
hamlet  with  its  big  audience  hall,  its  dining  pavilion, 
"young  people's  chapel,"  and  short  crowded  streets  of 
cottages.     On  Sunday  morning,  while  in  this  vicinity, 
I  accosted  a  man  who  was  sitting  on  the  piazza  of  a 
house  just  outside  the  grounds  and  asked  about  the 
camp  meeting.    He  replied,  but  before  going  into  details 
mentioned  that  he  was  not  well — guessed  he  had  lung 
trouble.     He  coughed  pretty  continuously  in  a  debili- 
tated sort  of  way.    "When  you're  troubled  like  I  am," 
said  he,  "the  doctors  tell  you  to  sit  out  and  lay  out  and 
everything  else.    That's  why  I'm  here  on  the  piazza. 
You  want  to  know  about  this  camp  meeting.?    It's  one 
of  the  biggest  in  the  state.     People  come  from   St. 
Louis  and  all  the  way  around  to  attend  the  meetin's 
and  spend  a  few  weeks  here.    Every  cottage  is  full,  and 
lots  of  folks  drive  in  from  the  country  to  spend  the  day. 
Why,  man!    I've  seen  buggies  here  cl'ar  up  and  down 
the  road  on  each  side  as  thick  as  they  could  stand,  and 
only  space  left  between  to  drive  through.    The  horses 
were  unhitched   and   put  in  village  barns.     Sundays 
are  the  worst  time.     It's  then  that  the  most  turn  out, 
and  they  just  push  and  crowd  all  day.    You  see  that 
little  shed  next  to  the  street  in  the  corner  of  our  yard. 
One  Sunday,  in  that  shed,  I  took  in  a  hundred  and  ten 
dollars  selling  ice  cream,  lemonade,  and  pops.     They 
make  good  long  days  of  it  in  this  camp  meetin'  business. 
There's  a  bugle  blows  at  half-past  six  to  get  the  people 


312      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

out  to  the  first  prayer  service,  and  they  keep  goin'  way 
into  the  night. 

"This  is  a  religious  town,  camp  meetin'  or  no  camp 
meetin'.  Two  of  our  ministers  get  a  thousand  dollars 
a  year,  and  the  other  six  hundred — twenty-six  hundred 
dollars  a  year  paid  out  for  preachers,  and  the  place 
hasn't  got  over  seven  hundred  inhabitants.  But  the 
people  are  prosperous,  and  I  don't  think  there's  an 
empty  house  in  town.  You  just  go  out  tomorrow 
morning  and  try  to  hire  a  man.  You'll  find  'em  all 
busy,  and  you  can't  get  one  for  love  or  money;  or  if 
you  can,  every  man  you  strike  wants  twenty-five  cents 
an  hour.    The  farmers  can't  hardly  get  help  at  all. 

"Quite  a  lot  of  business  is  done  here — oh,  by  golly; 
you  bet!  One  hardware  store  does  a  thousand  dollars 
a  month.  A  good  many  village  people  like  to  go  down 
to  La  Fayette  on  Saturday  evening.  It's  a  pleasant 
ride,  and  they  want  to  have  a  little  fun  and  get  some 
beer,  I  guess.  This  is  a  dry  town,  and  you  never  hear 
of  a  person  getting  into  trouble,  or  anything  like  that, 
There*s  no  nicer  little  place  in  the  state.  On  Sunday 
the  people  mostly  go  to  church  and  Sunday-school  in 
the  morning,  and  rest  in  the  afternoon.  There'll  be  a 
ball  game  somewhere  on  the  outskirts,  but  they  never 
allow  no  shooting  around  here  on  Sunday,  and  they 
don't  go  fishing  on  that  day, 

"Paw  and  maw  will  be  going  to  church  by  and  by, 
but  I  shan't  go.  The  preachers  are  the  biggest  hypo- 
crites on  earth  to  my  notion.    All  they  care  for  is  to  run 


Returning  from  the  spring  house 


Tippecanoe  313 

down  the  churches  that  don't  belong  to  their  own 
denomination.  They  bullyrag  one  another  and  claim 
their  own  particular  sect  has  got  the  only  true  form  of 
religion.  Of  course  there's  a  heaven  and  a  hell — the 
Bible  teaches  that;  but  each  denomination  seems  to 
have  a  different  heaven  and  hell.  Are  there  half  a 
dozen  heavens  and  hells.'*  You  can't  tell  me  any  such 
thing.  This  chewing  the  rag,  and  this  humbug  business, 
I  can't  stand. 

"I  used  to  belong  to  the  Christian  church.  Perhaps 
I  do  yet.  I  help  support  it,  though  I  don't  attend 
services,  and  they  don't  never  throw  anyone  out  who 
keeps  up  his  dues.  So  I  guess  they'll  bury  me  when  I 
die.  If  they  don't  they  can  feed  me  to  the  hogs.  It's 
all  the  same  to  me. 

"The  man  who  contributes  liberally  to  the  church  is 
the  sort  of  man  the  preachers  like.  Money's  all 
they  care  for,  and  a  feller  can  do  anything  if  he 
only  pays.  There's  churchmen  here  that  go  to 
La  Fayette  and  sneak  into  a  saloon  way  at  the  end  of 
Main  Street  for  fear  someone  will  see  'em.  But  that 
ain't  my  way.  I  go  in  at  the  front  door  every  time, 
and  it  don't  matter  who  sees  me.  If  I  was  walkin' 
along  on  La  Fayette  Main  Street  with  a  preacher  and 
wanted  a  drink  I'd  go  right  into  a  saloon  and  get  it. 
But  I  never  was  teetotally  drunk  in  my  life  and  never 
was  arrested. 

"One  thing  I'd  like  to  know  is  how  the  lawyers  can 
get  up  and  lie  and  plead  cases  they  know  are  not  honest, 


314      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

and  be  welcomed  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Lots  of 
lawyers  will  lie  for  five  dollars  and  do  any  mean  trick 
for  ten  or  twelve  dollars,  and  then  get  up  and  talk  in 
prayer-meetin'.  That's  what  hurts  the  churches  today 
— lettin'  these  lyin'  pups  get  in  there  and  run  things 
when  ever'body  knows  what  they  are.  People  ought 
to  take  a  rope  in  church  and  lassoo  such  fellers — jerk 
their  blamed  heads  off.  Now  that's  my  belief  about 
such  things." 

Earlier  in  the  morning  I  had  observed  that  more  or 
less  work  of  a  minor  nature  was  being  done.  The  small 
boys  had  on  overalls  and  were  busy  at  little  tasks 
about  their  homes;  a  man  tethered  a  horse  to  feed  by 
the  wayside,  and  from  each  house  a  woman  or  girl  came 
forth  and  swept  the  piazza  and  steps  and  then  the  walk 
clear  out  to  the  street.  Now  the  bells  were  ringing 
their  summons  to  church,  and  there  began  to  appear  on 
the  walks  processions  of  sober-garmented  elders,  and 
sedate  persons  of  middle  age,  and  gay-garbed  little  folk 
wending  their  way  toward  the  meeting-houses;  and 
frequent  family  teams  came  jogging  In  from  the  country 
and  were  hitched  near  the  edifices.  But  In  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  stores  and  restaurant  were  a  considerable 
number  of  loitering  young  men.  The  butcher's  shop 
was  temporarily  open  for  business,  and  I  asked  a  man 
who  came  out  from  this  shop  with  a  parcel  in  his  hands 
if  the  young  fellows  we  could  see  thereabouts  were 
planning  to  go  to  church. 

"No,"  said  he,  "very  few  of  this  crowd  go  to  church. 


Tippecanoe  315 

They'll  loaf  around  here  and  tell  lies  all  day.  You'll 
find  'em  here  every  pleasant  Sunday." 

We  chatted  for  a  while,  and  he  told  me  his  name — 
Warren — Joe  Warren — and  said  he  had  a  farm  a  mile 
or  two  out  of  the  village.  Then  I  told  him  my  name, 
and  of  my  interest  in  that  historic  region.  We  had 
hardly  exchanged  these  courtesies  when  he  called  to  a 
man  who  was  walking  past  and  introduced  me,  observ- 
ing that  he  wanted  me  to  know  him  because  he  had 
always  lived  there  and  could  give  me  a  good  deal  of 
information.  "Oh!  he  can  tell  about  things  way 
back,"  said  Joe  as  we  were  shaking  hands.  "He's  old. 
You  wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at  him,  but  he  is.  He's 
been  married  three  times.  Yes,  sir,  he's  living  with  his 
third  wife.  However,  you  can  talk  with  him  some 
other  time.  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do  this  morning. 
There's  my  team,"  and  he  pointed  to  a  fat  pony  at- 
tached to  a  top  buggy — "you  come  along  with  me  and 
I'll  show  you  where  the  prophet's  town  used  to  stand." 

So  we  left  the  much-married,  youthful-looking  an- 
cient, and  drove  out  of  the  village.  After  Joe  had 
stopped  at  his  house  to  leave  the  meat  with  his  mother 
we  followed  a  devious  byway  toward  the  river.  Around 
us  were  big  farm  fields,  mostly  fenced  with  wire,  but 
rail  fences  were  not  entirely  of  the  past,  and  sometimes 
there  was  a  thorny  osage  hedge.  Now  and  then  we 
encountered  a  gate,  and  Joe  got  out  and  opened  it,  and 
when  I  had  driven  through,  he  shut  it  behind  us.  At 
length  we  came  to  the  site  of  the  old  Indian  camp  in  a 


3i6      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

brushy   pasture   on    a    high    plateau    overlooking   the 
Wabash. 

The  day  was  hot  and  bright,  and  the  pasture  was  not 
an  inviting  place  to  linger.  Joe  said  we  would  go  and 
make  a  call  at  a  neighboring  farmhouse  where  lived  a 
renter  named  Morris.  As  we  approached  the  dwelling 
we  encountered  the  renter  near  an  outlying  gate  feeding 
a  sow  with  a  following  of  little  pigs.  He  was  gray  and 
had  passed  three  score,  but  age  had  not  yet  subdued 
his  hearty,  big-framed  vigor.  We  went  on  and  he 
walked  beside  the  buggy  until  we  entered  the  farmyard. 
There  we  found  a  hitchlng-place  amid  a  medley  of 
wagons  and  tools  and  woodpiles.  When  we  had  tied 
the  horse  we  entered  the  houseyard.  This  was  almost 
bare  of  grass,  and  the  earth  was  hard  trodden  by  human 
feet  and  those  of  a  numerous  colony  of  fowls.  The 
house  was  a  reasonably  good  farm  structure,  but  some 
of  the  outbuildings  were  of  logs — survivals  of  a  more 
primitive  period.  They  stood  on  the  verge  of  a  wooded 
slope  that  descended  steeply  to  a  "bayou,"  and  beyond 
that  was  more  woodland  through  which  I  could  catch 
glimpses  of  the  river. 

We  had  gone  to  the  rear  of  the  house.  Probably  the 
front  door  was  never  used  except  for  a  wedding  or  a 
funeral.  A  brisk  elderly  woman  smoking  a  pipe,  ap- 
peared at  the  back  door,  and  exclaimed:  "Well,  my 
God!  Joe,  why  didn't  you  bring  granny?  It's  a  mean 
trick  of  you  to  come  without  her. " 


Tippecanoe  317 

"I  had  this  gentleman  with  me  today,"  replied  Joe, 
"but  I'll  sure  fetch  mother  next  time." 

Mr.  Morris  brought  out  some  chairs  for  us,  set  them 
in  the  shadow  of  the  henhouse  and  told  us  to  make 
ourselves  comfortable.  He  also  provided  chairs  for 
himself  and  his  wife.  Two  brawny,  red-faced  sons 
shortly  afterward  joined  us  and  seated  themselves  on 
the  steps  of  an  adjoining  shed.  We  were  soon  chatting 
about  old  times,  and  Mr.  Morris  said:  "When  I  come 
here  in  1862  'twan't  no  such  country  as  it  is  now,  I  can 
tell  you  that,  though  it  was  already  right  sharply 
settled.  We  built  a  little  log  cabin  'bout  the  size  of  our 
present  kitchen,  and  for  heating  and  cooking  we  had  an 
open  fireplace.  Now  you've  got  to  have  a  base-burner 
to  be  anywhere  along  in  the  crowd;  but  there's  no  use 
talkin' — it's  not  as  healthy  as  the  good  old  fireplace." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Morris,  "the  fireplace  was  what  I 
cooked  in  when  we  was  first  married,  and  at  one  side  of 
it  was  a  big  oven  in  which  I  baked  the  best  bread  that 
you  ever  tasted." 

"In  my  boyhood  days  comin'  up,"  said  Mr.  Morris, 
"we  had  biscuit  on  Sunday  and  corn  bread  the  balance 
of  the  time." 

"I  don't  know  as  I  could  make  corn  bread  now," 
remarked  Mrs.  Morris.  "I  forgit,  but  I  used  to  make 
it  all  the  samee,  and  if  I  was  to  make  a  pone  today  such 
as  I  used  to  make,  you  would  never  be  willing  to  leave 
here  till  it  was  eaten  up." 

"I'll  tell  yer,"  commented  Mr.  Morris,  "we  had 


3i8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

just  as  much  to  eat  in  old  times  as  we  do  now.  There 
was  plenty  of  deer  here  yet  in  '62,  and  wild  turkeys — 
lots  of  'em.  But  I  used  to  hunt  with  a  brich-loader 
that  would  bust  my  nose  every  time  I  shot  it.  The  gun 
would  jump  and  kick  and  hit  me  in  the  face  in  spite  of 
all  I  could  do.  There  used  to  be  wild  hogs,  and  we'd 
go  out  and  shoot  'em  in  butcherin'  time.  'Bout  the  best 
place  to  find  'em  was  up  the  river  a  few  miles  at  what 
was  called  Hog  P'int.  We  had  all  the  fish  we  wanted. 
My  goodness  alive!  we'd  ketch  that  length  of  bass," 
and  he  held  his  hands  a  considerable  space  apart.  "We 
used  to  ketch  these  here  salmon,  too.  Once  in  a  while 
we  run  onto  a  salmon,  now.  That  reminds  me  of  a 
time  I  got  some  fish  from  a  net  that  was  set  out  of 
season.  There  were  three  of  us  fellers  together  when 
we  found  the  net.  I  and  Cunningham  were  buUheaded 
things,  and  Bill  Wesley  was  kind  of  a  dare-devil,  too. 
Besides,  we  didn't  think  the  owner  of  the  net  would 
pester  us  much,  even  if  he  caught  us,  because  he  was 
breakin'  the  law  to  set  it.  So  we  drew  it  in  and  tuck 
all  the  fish  we  could  carry  off. " 

"We  had  twelve  sunfish  for  breakfast  yesterday," 
said  Mrs.  Morris.  "I  rolled  'em  in  meal  and  fried  'em 
in  fat,  and  the  meat  was  so  tender  it  was  fairly  drippin' 
off  the  bones.    They  were  fine." 

"Mrs.  Morris,"  said  Joe,  "do  you  know  what  I'd 
have  done  if  I'd  known  you  had  them  fish?  I'd  have 
come  over  and  stole  'em.    Say,  I'll  bet  they  were  nice!" 

One  of  the  boys  brought  out  from  the  shed  a  leather 


Tippecanoe  319 

shot  pouch,  and  a  powder  receptacle  that  was  made  of  a 
cowhorn.  "Before  Dad  and  Ma'm  were  married," 
said  he,  "Dad  lived  way  yonder  in  Kentucky,  and  he 
got  this  powder  horn  and  shot  pouch  there  from  the 
Indians.  I've  often  hearn  him  tellin'  that  they  are 
more  than  a  hunderd  years  old." 

"Since  I  come  here  I've  never  seen  any  Indians  but 
once,"  said  Mr.  Morris.  "That  once  was  when  a  party 
of  twelve  passed  through  on  their  way  to  Washington. 
They  wa'n't  at  all  wild  in  their  clothes.  Oh,  by  jinks! 
they  was  just  as  well  trimmed  up  as  you  are,  or  any 
other  man.  They  stopped  here  by  the  Wabash.  One 
of  'em  said  he  could  swim  across  the  river  under  water, 
and  it  was  good  and  wide  there,  too.  He  flipped  into 
that  water  like  a  duck,  and  the  next  thing  we  saw  his 
head  come  up  way  over  at  the  other  shore.  The  rest 
couldn't  do  it.  The  race  was  running  out  of  'em,  but 
he  was  a  full-blood  yet.  He  could  swim  better  than 
the  other  eleven,  and  he  could  run  further.  He  beat 
any  man  I  ever  laid  eyes  on  in  going." 

"Right  under  that  southeast  corner  of  the  house  is 
the  skileton  of  an  Indian,"  remarked  Mrs.  Morris. 
"The  men  found  it  when  they  was  digging  for  the 
foundation. " 

"What  in  the  Old  Nick  did  they  leave  it  thar  for.?" 
inquired  one  of  the  boys. 

"They  didn't  like  to  be  disturbin'  a  dead  man," 
replied  Mrs.  Morris. 


320      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"I  reckon  you  feel  nervous  sometimes  when  you 
happen  to  think  of  him,"  said  Joe. 

"No,"  declared  Mrs.  Morris,  "it  never  makes  me  a 
bit  scairt.  I  never  did  anything  to  that  dead  man,  and 
I'm  a  woman  that  lives  after  the  Lord." 

"If  you'd  told  Al'  Jones  about  that  skileton  he'd 
have  give  yer  fifty  dollars  for  it,"  one  of  the  boys 
affirmed.  "He's  got  his  house  full  of  curiosities  and 
ain't  satisfied  yit. " 

"The  more  Indian  relics  he  can  git  the  better  he's 
pleased, "  said  Mrs.  Morris.  "  I've  give  Albert  a  double 
handful  of  arrowheads." 

"And  there's  old  Judge  Dehart — I'll  bet  he's  got 
ten  bushel  of  'em,"  said  the  son.  "He's  just  as  fierce 
after  relics  as  Al'  is,  and  he  has  been  at  it  longer." 

"I  got  just  one  fault  to  find  with  old  times,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Morris.  "We  had  chills  and  fever,  and  we 
had  plenty,  oh,  you  bet!  The  malaria  got  nine  out  of 
ten  of  us  in  the  fall  of  the  year.  It  used  to  be  a  des- 
perate thing.  You'd  see  an  old  feller  settin'  around 
with  his  back  humped  up  and  an  overcoat  on,  right 
out  in  the  sun  in  the  hottest  place  he  could  find,  and 
shivering.  Then,  in  a  little  while,  he'd  be  burnt  up 
with  fever.  But  it  was  a  disease  that  could  be  cured. 
My  daughter  had  a  lump  in  her  side  that  they  called  an 
ager  cake.  We  thought  she  was  goin'  to  die,  but  we 
took  her  to  ole  Doc  Burton,  and  with  only  two  treat- 
ments he  knocked  that  thar  ager  cake  all  asunder.    He 


Ready  to  start  for  zvork 


Tippecanoe  321 

didn't  tell  what  the  medicine  was,  but  it  must  have 
been  some  kind  of  p'ison.    I  had  the  chills — " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Morris,  "Daddy  had 
chills,  and  I  had  the  'zemy;  and  r'aly  I  hain't  got  over 
that  'zemy  to  this  day,  though  I've  tuck  all  kinds  of 
medicine,  pretty  near." 

"But  I  broke  my  chills,"  resumed  Mr.  Morris.  "I 
had  'em  every  other  day  until  I'd  had  three,  and  I  just 
thought  they  was  goin'  to  kill  me.  By  jolly!  I  was  no 
account  whatever.  When  the  fourth  ager  day  come  I 
e't  a  little  bite,  put  on  an  old  blue  soldier  overcoat  I 
had,  and  told  my  woman  I  was  goin'  to  town.  Then  I 
tuck  a  quart  bottle  and  went  to  the  woods  and  about 
half  filled  the  bottle  with  quaking  asp  bark,  green, 
right  off  the  tree.  After  that  I  jumped  on  my  horse, 
and  away  I  went.  As  soon  as  I  got  to  the  store  I  carried 
in  my  bottle  of  bark  and  says,  'Give  me  a  pint  of  good 
whiskey  in  that.' 

"The  clerk  poured  in  the  whiskey  and  I  paid  him 
and  stepped  right  outside  of  the  door  and  drank  nearly 
all  of  it.  Afterward  I  mounted  my  horse  and  started 
for  home,  and  that's  all  I  knew  until  the  next  morning. 
Then  I  found  that  I  was  lyin'  by  the  roadside.  I  got 
up  and  looked  at  myself  and  I  was  the  dirtiest  man  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  I  had  bowdaciously  puked  all 
over  my  clothes." 

"Did  you  puke  or  vomit?"  asked  Mrs.  Morris  with 
a  humorous  twinkle  in  her  eyes  and  an  implication  in 
her  voice  that  his  expression  was  rather  inelegant. 


322     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

"I  puked,"  he  reiterated,  "and  my  overcoat  was  so 
bedaubed  I  left  it  right  than  The  horse  had  gone  on 
home,  and  I'd  got  to  walk.  I  was  awful  thirsty.  Thar 
was  a  little  of  the  asp  bark  and  whiskey  mixture  left  in 
my  bottle,  but  I  couldn't  bear  it.  Near  by  was  a 
swampy  pool,  and  I  knelt  down  and  blew  the  green 
scum  away  and  drank  that  water." 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  hollerin'  for  you  while  you  was 
lyin'  thar  by  the  roadside?"  questioned  his  wife.  "I 
hollered  till  about  midnight." 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  didn't  even  hear  the  prairie 
wolves  howlin',  and  they  were  just  as  thick  as  could  be, 
but  they  didn't  pester  me  none. " 

"They  won't  bother  a  dead  man,"  remarked  one  of 
the  sons.     "They'll  go  right  on. " 

"Prairie  wolves  are  a  little  yaller  concern,"  Mr. 
Morris  continued.  "Out  in  a  lonely  country  they'll 
foller  a  man  and  make  out  like  they're  goin'  to  do  things, 
but  they  don't.  One  night  I  went  to  town  and  stayed 
till  nine  or  ten  o'clock. " 

"What  was  you  doin'  thar  so  late.?"  Mrs.  Morris 
inquired. 

"Havin'  a  little  fun,  that's  all,"  he  answered. 

"Tell  it  straight,"  she  cautioned.  "Say  you  got 
drunk." 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  left  town  with  a  meal  sack  full  of 
beef  on  the  horse  in  front  of  me.  It  was  six  miles  to 
whar  I  lived.  About  half  way  the  wolves  commenced 
crowding  around.     I  s'pose  the  smell  of  the  meat  at- 


Tippecanoe  323 

traded  'em,  and  terrectly  seem  like  thar  was  a  thou- 
sand. They  were  yelpin'  this  way  and  that  and  every 
way,  and  they  followed  me  plumb  home.  They  were 
right  thar  when  I  put  up  my  horse  and  went  in  the 
house  with  the  meat.  Them  times  we  didn't  care  for 
prairie  wolves  any  more  than  for  dogs.  The  old  set- 
tlers here  wa'n't  afraid  of  the  devil.  At  that  day  and 
age  of  the  world  men  in  this  new  country  didn't  propose 
to  be  run  over  by  anyone  or  anything. " 

About  this  time  some  relatives  of  the  family  arrived, 
and  soon  afterward  Joe  and  I  took  our  departure. 

On  the  following  day  I  decided  I  must  see  the  Tippe- 
canoe River  before  I  left  the  region,  and  I  felt  assured 
I  would  find  a  wild  and  satisfying  beauty  along  a  stream 
with  so  delectable  a  name.  I  was  much  encouraged, 
after  leaving  the  village  and  the  highroad  and  following 
a  lane  for  quite  a  distance,  to  find  on  ahead  the  most 
idyllic  farm  home  I  had  seen  for  a  long  time.  The 
dwelling  stood  on  a  knoll,  under  a  group  of  large  shad- 
owing trees,  just  beyond  a  wide  but  shallow  brook,  and 
down  the  slope  beside  the  stream  was  a  neat  little 
spring  house  where  the  family  kept  their  milk  and 
cream  and  whatever  else  was  better  stored  in  a  cool 
place.  Not  far  away  the  brook  was  overhung  by  trees, 
and  there  a  herd  of  cattle  had  gathered  and  stood  in  the 
shallows  contentedly  chewing  their  cuds  and  flicking  at 
the  flies  with  their  tails.  The  road  to  the  house  went 
directly  through  the  water,  but  a  long  plank  was  laid 
down  to  afford  a  passage  for  persons  on  foot.     I  ob- 


324     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

served  that  this  bridge  was  also  much  used  by  some 
pigs  that  roamed  about  in  the  pasture.  They  seemed 
to  think  it  was  for  their  especial  benefit,  and  they 
would  walk  soberly  across  it,  even  if  they  came  out  of 
the  middle  of  the  stream  to  do  so,  and  then  wended 
their  way  back  to  midstream  from  the  other  side. 

At  the  house  I  obtained  directions,  and  went  on 
across  two  or  three  big  grass  fields  and  entered  a  vast 
expanse  of  corn.  The  corn  was  marvellously  tall  and 
stout-stalked,  and  might  have  been  attractive  if  it  had 
not  been  so  broken  down  and  tipped  over  by  the  winds 
and  rains.  It  was  fully  ripe,  and  the  leaves  were  brown 
and  dead,  and  the  stalks  lay  at  every,  sort  of  slant. 
Many  were  flat  on  the  ground.  As  a  result  the  walking 
was  decidedly  arduous,  but  what  made  matters  ten 
times  worse  was  the  abundance  of  weeds,  and  especially 
the  clinging  vines  that  festooned  and  tangled  the  stalks. 
The  majority  of  the  weeds  were  of  a  savage,  fighting 
clan  armed  with  prickles,  and  I  collected  a  great  variety 
of  their  barbed  weapons  on  my  clothing.  The  wild 
cucumber  troubled  me  most.  Their  spines  were  both 
sharp  and  slender,  and,  like  porcupine  quills,  were 
bound  to  keep  on  in  the  direction  they  started. 

I  was  heartily  thankful  when  I  got  through  the  corn 
to  a  line  of  trees  that  I  thought  indicated  the  river  was 
not  far  away.  But  here,  to  my  dismay,  I  was  confronted 
by  battalions  of  horseweeds,  growing  as  thick  as  they 
could  stand  and  spindling  up  to  a  height  of  eight  or  ten 
feet.    I  was  half  minded  to  turn  back.    However,  after 


Tippecanoe  325 

a  little  deliberation,  I  began  to  break  a  path  through 
the  jungle.  The  ground  was  rough,  and  I  encountered 
snags  and  unexpected  holes  and  steep-sided  muddy 
ravines.  Besides,  the  nettles  stung  my  hands,  and,  as  if 
that  was  not  enough,  some  mosquitoes  appeared  on  the 
scene  and  began  jabbing  me.  Enveloped  by  the  rank 
undergrowth  amid  the  scattered  trees  I  could  see  only  a 
few  feet  ahead  so  that  I  did  not  glimpse  the  river  until 
I  was  right  on  its  verge.  And  what  was  the  reward  of 
all  my  toil  and  swelter.?  A  roily,  sluggish  stream,  bor- 
dered by  perpendicular  mudbanks  that  were  eaten 
away  by  freshets,  and  overgrown  with  thickets  of  weeds 
and  bushes.  In  this  rank  environing  tangle  grew  a 
straggling  of  tall  trees,  some  of  which  had  been  under- 
mined and  had  fallen  into  the  water.  There  were  no 
stones  or  grass  along  shore  to  give  a  touch  of  either 
vigor  or  grace.  I  turned  away  disappointed,  retraced 
my  steps  through  the  riverside  jungle,  following  the 
narrow  trail  I  had  previously  broken,  and  presently 
emerged  into  the  cornfield.  I  kept  on,  dodging  about 
among  the  tangled  stalks  and  belligerent  weeds  as  best 
I  could,  and  finally  escaped  to  the  mowing  land,  a  good 
deal  exhausted  and  the  worse  for  wear.  As  my  route 
to  the  village  passed  Joe  Warren's  house  I  stopped  on 
his  porch  to  rest,  and  related  to  him  my  experiences. 
"Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  he,  "you  take  it  on 
those  bottoms,  the  soil  is  a  sandy  loom,  and  very  little 
wind  will  blow  the  corn  over.  But  the  corn  is  seldom 
ever  damaged  that  way.    Whatever  is  blown  over  early 


326      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

in  the  season  will  raise  up,  but  after  it  gets  ears  on  it 
those  hold  the  stalks  down.  Then  the  morning-glory 
vines  and  the  pea  vines  and  gopher  vines  and  wild 
cucumber  vines  grow  over  them  and  so  tangle  the  stalks 
together  that  dog  gone  if  you  can't  almost  take  hold 
at  one  corner  and  shake  the  whole  field! 

"I  don't  like  those  cucumber  vines  a  darn  bit.  A 
field  overgrown  with  'em  is  the  meanest  thing  to  shuck 
corn  in,  and  it's  hard  to  get  men  to  work  in  such  a  field. 
Those  prickles  go  right  through  cotton  gloves,  and 
they'll  go  through  your  trousers;  and  when  they  get 
into  your  flesh  they  break  off  and  make  festering  sores. 
The  buskers  like  to  wear  overalls  that  have  been  used 
all  summer  by  some  house  painter.  If  the  cloth  is  well 
daubed  with  paint  the  prickles  won't  go  through. 

"We  can't  get  rid  of  the  weeds  in  the  bottoms  because 
the  floods  bring  on  a  fresh  lot  of  seed  every  year.  But 
we  raise  our  heaviest  corn  there.  Oh,  that  land  is  im- 
mense— it's  rich!  The  floods  keep  it  fertilized  with 
deposits  of  sediment,  and  you  can  just  corn  that  land 
right  along.  Sometimes  we  have  a  fall  flood.  That's 
bad,  for  if  the  corn  gets  well  soaked  it  sours  and  softens 
and  is  hardly  fit  for  hog  feed.  So  we  always  aim  to  jerk 
out  that  corn  in  the  bottoms  the  first  thing. 

"The  bottom  land  brings  a  good  price.  If  any  was 
for  sale  it  would  be  about  a  hundred  and  a  quarter  an 
acre  I  suppose.  But  you  won't  find  any  man  on  this 
road  so  dissatisfied  that  he  wants  to  sell.  There's  some- 
thing wrong  with  the  farmer  who  doesn't  make  money 


Tippecanoe  327 

^hen  the  crops  are  fetchin'  the  prices  they  do  now. 
Even  a  renter  can  get  rich  here,  and  pay  eight  dollars 
an  acre  a  year  for  the  land,  too. " 

"By  the  way,"  said  I,  "what  does  the  word  Tippe- 
canoe mean.^" 

"It  means  Buffalo  Fish,"  replied  Joe. 

"If  I'd  known  that  I  never  would  have  gone  to  look 
at  it,"  said  I.  "But  I  had  imagined  it  meant  River  of 
Paradise  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"Well,"  responded  Joe,  "if  you'd  gone  up  a  few  miles 
farther  you'd  have  found  it  an  awful  pretty  stream. 
There  it  flows  between  clay  bluffs  and  hills,  and  the 
bottom  of  the  river  is  all  gravel  and  rocks,  and  the  water 
is  perfectly  clear." 

The  sun  was  dipping  low  in  the  west,  and  long  cool 
shadows  were  stretching  eastward,  and  my  companion 
remarked  that  he  must  go  and  look  for  his  cow.  "It'll 
soon  be  dark, "  he  added,  "  and  she  has  a  habit  of  getting 
off  in  the  brush  at  the  far  side  of  the  pasture. " 

So  Joe  and  I  parted,  and  late  the  same  day  I  took  a 
train  that  carried  me  homeward,  and  my  rambles  in  the 
region  of  the  Great  Lakes  were  ended. 

Note. — The  battlefield  of  Tippecanoe  is  a  hundred  miles  almost 
due  south  from  Chicago.  It  is  in  a  delightful  rural  region  near  the 
head  of  navigation  on  the  Wabash  River,  and  the  vicinity  is  not  so 
changed  but  that  one  finds  it  easy  to  reproduce  in  fancy  the  old 
fight.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  loiter  in  the  adjacent  village,  and  if  one's 
taste  runs  to  camp  meetings  you  can  come  in  midsummer  and  find 
such  a  meeting  in  full  blast,  and  the  grounds  only  separated  from 


328      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Great  Lakes 

the  famous  battlefield  by  a  fence.  The  farm  region  adjacent  has 
considerable  attractiveness,  and  I  suggest  that  it  would  be  of 
interest  to  one  unused  to  this  western  region  to  go  back  from  the 
river  far  enough  to  see  what  was  originally  prairie  in  contrast  to 
the  wooded  land  that  bordered  the  streams. 


*i4?vi    'it 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


M)W  6     1937 


!?EC'D  U)-URD 


CD 


FormL-9-15m-7,'32 


